I'm Fine
by GoddessOfTechnology
Summary: All the times Jack said "I'm fine". An exercise (because I was bored, go figure). (collection of one-shots) (Rated T for reasons)
1. Perfectly Fine

**A/N: I need to stop starting new stories. Ah, well.  
**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG. Also, cover image is a drawing by Gustave Dore and is thus in the public domain.  
**

* * *

 _"_ _What_ _are you, Jack Frost?"_

 _The answer was quick to come, as he jokingly paraphrased._ _"_ _I am not a friend, and I am not a servant. I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me." *****  
_

* * *

Being thrown at a brick wall at some two hundred miles an hour was just one of those things that never got old. At least, in Jack's opinion.

For one thing, depending on the way you were thrown, different bones were broken at different throws. Judging by the fact that a few of his ribs were cracked, his right shoulder hurt like hell (possibly dislocated), and his head felt like it had been enthusiastically pummeled by a sledgehammer, he determined that he'd been thrown so that most of the force of the impact had landed on his shoulder.

Which suited him fine. From what he could currently feel (blood trekking down his face, right arm rapidly numbing and turning clammy, ribs creaking ominously with every breath, blood rising up his windpipe in choking coughs and trickling out the corner of his mouth) the injuries he sustained would be inconvenient and mildly annoying, but they would heal in time. He would be fine. *****

"Jack!"

Ah. That would be Tooth. What did she want?

"Jack, are you alright?"

He hauled himself into a sitting position, barely restraining a cough, as he gave his automatic response to such questions. "I'm fine, Tooth."

Her concerned amethyst gaze grew suspicious as she landed in front of him, shimmery wings whirring to a halt. She hesitantly reached out to him, but drew back her hand before making contact. "...Are you sure?"

 _"Yes."_

She evidently did not notice the strange twist of his shoulder _(it's dark, what did you expect)_ , or the blood dripping from his mouth _(most of these bloodstains are from your head, anyway, so why would she notice a little trickle amongst a waterfall?)_ , for she took his word for it and looked away.

He followed her gaze, and found himself glancing over at the town square, in which the torn body of the Gorgon still lay. While spirits were immune to the creature's deadly gaze, the demon could still pack a powerful punch, as Jack had just learned.

"...We should probably get that out of here before daybreak."

He nodded in agreement, and dragged himself to his feet. Tooth did not seem to notice that he was holding the staff in his left hand, or that he was using said staff to keep himself upright _(and why would she, what is she, your **mother** )_, instead hovering towards the Gorgon. *****

He took a moment to compose himself, before he flew off after her.

* * *

No one noticed, not Tooth when he had to use the wind to lift the Gorgon, not Bunny or North or Sandy when the two rejoined them to report success on their mission, not any of them when he winched at every jar of the sleigh and every move he made. All they saw was the shallow yet minor cut to his head, that bled a great deal but meant little to them.

He was fine with that, though. He was fine. He didn't need help. He was the Cat who walked by himself, and all places were alike to him.

* * *

 _"Jack, you're hurt-"_

 _"I'm **fine** ," he interrupted, ignoring the stab of pain shooting through his chest. To prove his point, he threw a careless smile on his face, and after a few moments during which she was clearly doubtful, the Yuki-onna shrugged and turned away, taking his word for it._

* * *

He ended up hiding inside a cave as the pain got worse.

The cave was lonely, yet comforting. There was no sound apart from the faint trickling of a thin film of water flowing slowly down one of the walls, no light apart from that which came inside the opening of the cave. He dragged himself as far inside as he could manage, before collapsing, his back flush against the wall.

He probably looked pathetic at the moment, the panting, coughing, wincing mess that he was, but there was no one to see it, so it didn't matter, anyhow. He could fix it, he was fine.

 _(Out of sight, out of mind. What others don't know won't hurt them.)_

With this resolve in mind, he set to work. It was easier than he thought it would be: it was not the first, nor the second, nor the third time his shoulder had been dislocated, so with a little effort, it slipped smoothly back into place *****. The ribs and the damaged lungs were things that would heal in time, as was the head injury. All he needed was rest and time to fix what was broken.

He slumped against the wall, closed his eyes, and slipped quietly into a deep dreamless sleep, as his body began to heal.

* * *

Three weeks later, and he was good as new. The Guardians were puzzled at his disappearance, but after a few annoying questions that he dodged like a snipe, they left him alone.

A part of him, one he abruptly crushed, felt disappointed. He'd been half-hoping that they cared enough to at least try to see past his pseudo-lies (they weren't real lies, of course, he could take care of himself). The way he saw it now, though, this only proved that he couldn't rely on the Guardians to help him. He'd need to remain self-sufficient, independent, and solitary if he wanted to continue surviving.

He preferred it this way, though. Depending on others involved too much risk. The brutal truth was that no matter what people said, they always left you, and if he placed his trust in his fellow Guardians then he'd be sure to suffer the backlash eventually. It would be madness to create a dependency where none was needed, to sabotage himself with a 'friendship' that was neither infallible nor desired.

He didn't need them. He was fine. He'd always been fine. As long as he could manage things on his own, no one needed to know when he was damaged, because he _didn't need their help._

 _(Which was fine. Because if something breaks, and no one notices, and that something is fixed in the meantime…)_

 _(...Then no one needs to know it was ever broken at all.)_

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **1-"I am not a friend, and I am not a servant. I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me" is a quote from "The Cat Who Walked By Himself", by Rudyard Kipling.**

 **2-Jack is dead. He's essentially a walking, talking corpse. He probably doesn't feel physical pain as well as a live person would. Which isn't to say that he doesn't feel pain at all (far from it), but he has a much higher pain tolerance than most.**

 **Also, a word on spirit physiology: spirits can only die from magically-induced injuries. A fall from a height, a stab from an ordinary blade, or an attack from a wolf won't kill them, even if their neck is broken, their heart is cut open, or their throat is torn up. Magical stuff, like spells, magic weapons, or other things _could_ mortally wound them, though. This strange selective immunity is due to some complicated theories I have about spirits that would take way too long to explain now. Plus I doubt you're interested. (If you are, though, PM me and I can explain it to you).  
**

 **3-Ever heard of Medusa? Yep, she was a Gorgon. A Gorgon is a psycho creature that looks like a woman with snakes for hair. Her gaze can turn people to stone (although judging from the Greek/Roman legends, it doesn't seem like immortals are vulnerable, so I guess spirits aren't either)**

 **4-Occasionally, people who had their shoulder dislocated multiple times beforehand can eventually relocate it themselves if it happens to be dislocated again. Please don't try this, though. Whenever your shoulder is dislocated, you _must_ go to a doctor, even if you manage to pop it back in yourself (and you probably shouldn't try to do that, unless you're alone in the wildness, days away from medical aid. Even in that case, it's better to get someone else to do it for you).**


	2. Kidnapped Again? Must Be Wednesday

**A/N:**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG. No, really, I don't.**

* * *

 _The flames surrounded him, drawing ever nearer, the smoke stifling him in its ashy, suffocating_ _embrace. Panic rose in his chest, sharp and acrid, and he jerked_ _harshly against the ropes binding him to the stake, to no avail._

 _His chest heaved as his lungs struggled to draw in air, but inhaled ashes_ _and carbon dioxide instead. His head was swimming with the lack of oxygen and with the fear that gripped his very core in a deathly tight grip. With a last effort, he pulled weakly_ _at_ _the ropes once more, but they gave not an inch._

 _Darkness began creeping in at the edges of his vision, and he prepared himself for the onslaught of unconsciousness_ _coming his way. He wouldn't die, that he was sure, for the fire was neither magical nor empowered by magic. He would suffer somewhat_ _from burns and from the aftermaths of smoke_ _inhalation, but he would be fine._

 _He_ _ **was**_ _fine._

 _Then why did he still feel fear?_

* * *

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

The nightmare clung doggedly to his mind, haunting him, even as he slowly returned to the realm of consciousness. He shuddered slightly, still plagued by the shivers of fear that were skittering merrily up and down his spine, and opened his eyes.

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

...He was not in Burgess.

The room (for it was evidently a room, and a closed one at that, as the Wind could not reach him) was dark, so dark that his gaze couldn't piece through the inky blackness. From somewhere on his right, a persistent dripping sound assailed his ears, hammering gently but persistently at his skull.

When he attempted to move, he was met with resistance.

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

As he became more aware, he realized that he was somehow being forced into a sitting position. Further investigation showed that he was seated in a wooden chair, wrists tied to the armrests and heels firmly lashed to the chair legs. He tested his bonds, and found them secure.

How inconvenient.

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

Ice powers were impressive, but they did not aid one in untying oneself from a wooden chair. Of course, he could always conjure an icy blade and clumsily slice through his bonds, holding the dagger between his teeth, but it would involve a fairly awkward position and the risk of accidentally slashing his own wrist. Not that that would really kill him, of course, but falling unconscious from blood loss was something he'd rather avoid, if possible.

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

...That dripping was seriously starting to get on his nerves.

* * *

How long had he been here already? An hour? Two? Three? He wasn't entirely sure, for when one flits from time zone to time zone continually, one does not develop a good sense of time.

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

Which brought him to his next question: had the Guardians noticed that he was gone? Surely they must have. He had, after all, been on his way to the Workshop for their meeting when he'd been kidnapped. By now he ought to be ridiculously late.

Then again, he generally was late to the meetings…

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

He shook his head. Either way, it did not matter. He'd been in worse situations before, and he'd gotten out just fine on his own. He didn't need their help.

He was fine.

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

Then why did he still feel fear?

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

 _Drip_

 _...Creak._

His head snapped up as a door opened, allowing a thin shaft of pale gold light into the room. He watched in slight trepidation as a shadowy figure slowly shuffled into the room, muttering something in some unfamiliar language.

Suddenly, light exploded from every direction.

Accustomed as they were to the darkness, his eye now seared in agony at the sudden barrage of light assaulting them. Reflexively, he shut them tightly, hissing slightly in pain.

When finally he had adapted to the brightness of the room, he carefully opened his eyes, only to find himself practically face to face with the ugliest hag he'd ever met.

She looked, in short, hideous. Her black hair, streaked with gray, was unkempt and more tangled than a hearthrug. Warts and scars covered her face. The worst, however, was that persistent streak of cruelty and malice in her face and gaze, which can horribly mar even the fairest of faces.

She grinned, revealing a unique collection of brown and black teeth. "Well, if it isn't the newest Guardian."

He gritted his teeth slightly. Her voice sounded like sandpaper on polystyrene foam, and it annoyed him to no end. "What do you want?"

She cackled. "Oh, nothing much, Frost _bite_. Just to see you _suffer._ "

The moment he heard the nickname, he realized exactly where this was heading. Winter spirits were widely considered a low form of spirit life, a plague upon the world, and most hated them with a passion. Over the centuries, many names had been given to them, from the mild epithet of "Frostbite" to the more prickly Dutch insult of _"sneeuw klootzak"._

Some, however, took the expression of their hatred far past common name-calling, occasionally even resorting to rather...bloody methods.

He glanced around the now-lighted room nervously, noting the wide collection of scalpels and daggers lining the walls, and wondered if maybe it wouldn't have been better to risk cutting his wrists after all.

* * *

"I think I'll start with your fingers."

He eyed anxiously the wrench in her right hand, heart rate increasing. "You want to crush them?"

The hag nodded affirmatively and moved to his left side, raising the wrench over her head as she did so. Panic suddenly taking hold, he blurted out the first sentence that came to mind. "If I were you, I'd go for the right hand first. That's my dominant hand."

The hag narrowed her green eyes, but switched sides.

He swallowed, and continued to blither, stalling. "Then again, I am a bit ambidextrous. The left hand is probably fine."

She switched sides again.

"Of course, I am far more dexterous with my right hand."

The hag paused and simply stared at him for a while. She then dropped the wrench and drew out a crooked, twisted dagger from her cloak. "I changed my mind. I'll just slice your throat open, see how you like _that._ "

"I wouldn't recommend it. I'd simply faint from blood loss, and torture is only fun if the victim is conscious."

Again, she stared at him. "...You are insane. Okay, how about I put your eyes out?"

He shrugged. "A good start, but you could do better. Besides, eyeballs are horribly messy."

She twirled the knife between her fingers, thinking. "Than would you prefer I bashed your head in with a crowbar instead?"

"Again, there's the problem with the potential loss of consciousness."

"I could cut your heart out."

"Too much blood loss."

"Torture you slowly with harmless yet painful cuts."

"I'm a winter spirit. I can ice over my wounds. There would be a few seconds of stinging pain, but then the ice would numb it and I'd be fine. Can't you do any better?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Then I think I'll go with fire. You're vulnerable to that, aren't you?"

He rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. "Really? Just because we control ice doesn't mean we're more vulnerable to fire than other spirits. We get burns just like you do, but that's it. Plus, we're actually a bit better off because we can ice over the injury, unlike you. Seriously, do your research."

The hag looked horribly frustrated. "...Poison. I'll do poison."

"Never really was affected by poison. Don't know why."

"...I'll break your ribs."

"My bones don't break that easily. You'd need a lot of force, and my current position isn't ideal for bone-breaking."

"I'll shove coals down your throat."

"And risk damaging my vocal cords? What, don't you want to hear my screams? I thought that was your aim, after all."

By now, she was beginning to look desperate and was evidently running out of ideas. "...I could...I could...strangle you?"

"..."

She seemed to realize the stupidity of that suggestion. "...Alright...what about...um..."

Silence.

"...I think I'm out of ideas."

"Why am I not surprised."

"...Are you hinting something?"

"That you have a poor imagination? Then yes."

She goggled at him, bemused. There was a long silence.

"...You know what?"

To his utter surprised, she hacked through his bonds with the dagger, before wandering off to the side. She soon returned, holding his staff in hand, and tossed it to him. He caught it easily, and gave her a confused look.

She continued. "Go. Just go. I can't deal with you today. I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but it's more than I can handle. Just please go away."

He decided to humor her.

* * *

When he returned at the Workshop, he was instantly assaulted by a worried green blur. "Jack! Where have you been? We were so worried about you!"

Before he could reply, Tooth was flitting hastily around him, examining him from all sides for injuries. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed North and Sandy giving him troubled glances, while Bunny rolled his eyes disparagingly but looked concerned all the same.

Having someone so worried about him felt...strange, but nice, in a way. He gently pushed the skittish fairy away from him. "Hey, Tooth, calm down. I was just a little delayed, that's all."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Are you _really_ alright?"

"Tooth. _I'm fine._ Don't worry about me."

She seemed to be content with his assertion, and slowly hovered away from him. Still, he noticed the tell-tale twitching of her fingers that showed she was just barely resisting the urge to examine his teeth.

He sighed inwardly, amused, and took his seat by the window. Within ten minutes, the meeting was in full swing.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 ** _"sneeuw klootzak"-Dutch for "snow bastard"  
_**

 **After that last angsty chapter, I thought I'd go for some dark humor instead.  
**

 **...I'm...not sure how well I did, but eh. It's been a while since I wrote humor. Especially dark humor.**


	3. Guilty Thoughts

**A/N: This one-shot fought me. So if it stinks in places, I'm sorry. I tried my best.**

 **Disclaimer: I no own.**

* * *

 _Jingle bells, jingle bells,_

 _Santa's dead and gone,_

 _Jack Frost's sad, in guilt he dwells_

 _And_ _still he's all alone,_

 _Jingle bells, jingle bells,_

 _Trust is gone and dead,_

 _Jack lays hid within his shell,_

 _And cries small tears of red_

* * *

 _It was 2:38AM on_ _Tuesday, September 16, and North was dying._

 _The_ _memory was still firmly etched in Jack's mind. A group of woodland elves had been causing trouble in Eastern Europe, snatching children from their beds in the middle of the night and taking them MiM knows where. Naturally, the Guardians had to do something, so they had taken the sleigh to Romania to confront the elves there._

 _The elves had not been happy, to say the least._

 _What resulted must have been the most brutal battle of the year for the Guardians. Elves were ruthless fighters, with a mind as_ _sharp as their blue steel swords, and they never backed down without a fight. The five Guardians had a hard time defeating them, and even then, none of them had made it out without extensive_ _injuries._

 _North, however, was in the worst shape of all, and it was all Jack's fault._

 _Jack had_ _been clumsy, he would freely admit it. He should have seen the elf sneaking behind him as he fought off four others at the same time, should have noticed the sword bearing down on his neck. He hadn't, however, and he would have gladly paid the price for that instance of carelessness._

 _North taking the blow, however, was not something he had counted on._

 _The Cossack had shoved him to the side with no warning and no explanation, knocking him easily to the ground, and he had looked up_ _just in time to see the sword flash down, as it glittering a lethal_ _blue-gray in the moonlight, and tear through North's stomach as if it were paper._

 _Blood had splattered everywhere; on the ground, on the elf, on North, and on Jack. He'd stared in shock as North had turned pale, groaned, and fallen to the ground. Only when the Russian collapsed_ _had he come to himself, yelling in rage as he'd thrown dozens of ice shards in the elf's face, ripping through skin and drawing blood in great globs. By then, though, the damage had already been done._

 _Now, the elves were overcome, but North was still dying, and guilt_ _was still clawing_ _mercilessly at Jack's insides. Not even the burning of the foxglove poison in his veins could distract him from the thought that North might die_ _because of_ _ **him.**_

 _Guilty thoughts were never pleasant company._

 _"_ _What have ya done, mate?"_

 _He looked_ _down and_ _away, and didn't say a word. Not for the trip back (as Sandy transported them to the Workshop), nor when they landed behind the massive building, nor when three yetis let them in at the door and hustled them all to the infirmary._

 _He didn't defend himself, and he didn't apologize._

 _Outside, the snow kept falling._

* * *

When he was turned away at the door of the infirmary and told that he did not need treatment, he didn't protest. He knew better than to believe, for the poison burned in his veins like wildfire clear as day, but he did not contradict.

After all, he knew he wouldn't die.

Oh, it hurt, certainly. His head pounded, his breath was short, his vision was blurred, and his heart was beating far too quickly. Guilt clawed at his insides, in time with the throbbing of his headache, and his body felt as if it was weighed down with lead. Still, he was an immortal. He wouldn't, _couldn't,_ die. Not from foxglove, at least.

The way he saw things, there was simply no point in complaining. His fellow Guardians needed medical treatment far more than he did, and in the meantime, he would survive. In pain, certainly, but he would survive.

He'd be fine.

Somehow, that disappointed him.

* * *

Bunny was let out of the infirmary, three hours after he'd entered.

The confrontation was an unpleasant one. Bunny firmly believed that Jack was fully responsible for North's injuries, and did not hesitate to remind him of the fact. For ten minutes straight, the Pooka upbraided Jack, hurling invective and hatred, before limping off to another part of the Workshop, leaving Jack alone again with his thoughts.

(Guilty thoughts were never pleasant company.)

Tooth and Sandy had similar reactions when they were let out. Tooth eyed him with a look of withering scorn before whizzing off, while Sandy simply seemed crestfallen as he followed her. Neither of them blamed him outright, but they both clearly believed him responsible.

Abruptly, Jack felt consumed by a desire to scream. To yell sense into their minds, to tell them "it's not my fault," to demand that they look past their blindfolds of blame and see that he needed help.

He restrained it, though. It was his fault, and he didn't need help. He'd been poisoned with foxglove before, he would live through it again.

...Unfortunately.

* * *

 _The blade flashed down, cutting through air with a mighty swish, shimmering a lethal blue. It didn't shudder at the screams, didn't pause at the ripping of flesh, didn't falter a moment as dark blood stained its flawless surface._

 _It was beautiful, and exquisitely terrible._

 _He should know: after all, **he** is the one bearing it._

He nearly toppled from his perch on the rafters as the nightmare came to an abrupt end, bringing him back to consciousness. His already too-rapid heart was now beating faster than a hummingbird's, and his strained breathing was now causing his chest to ache.

Traces of the nightmare clung to his groggy mind. He felt as if he still were grasping the sword in his hand, as if warm blood was still dripping from his fingertips. In that moment, he knew exactly how it felt to hold such a sword, how it balanced and how it weighed down on the palm, and the thought scared him.

Guilty thoughts were never pleasant company.

* * *

A week had passed, and Jack was quietly going insane.

It was as if he were alone again. Elves, yetis, and Guardians alike shunned him, refusing to give him news of their fallen companion, and he was going wild with worry about North. Guilt still clung fervently to him, forcing him to replay the terrible scene over and over in his mind and try to figure out just where it had all gone wrong.

Nightmares plagued him, turning his once-sharp mind into a mess of confusion and fear. They each were the same, with him driving the sword into North's chest as he laughed, a terrifying symphony of ice-cold blood and insanity.

As if this weren't enough, the effects of the foxglove had worsened. He had little energy, no appetite, and a steadily worsening headache. Strangely enough, his vision seemed to be tainted with yellow, now, and his sense of balance was deteriorating, forcing him to sit in a window-seat instead of in the rafters.

He was fine, though…

 _No._

...He didn't need help…

 _Lies._

...And no matter what people said, he would always say…

"I'm fine."

The words echoed in the empty room, and did little to reassure him.

* * *

 **A/N: To clarify: Jack is telling _himself_ that he's fine. Liar.  
**

 **Also, he lied last chapter. He actually is affected by poisons when they're administered in large amounts. He just said he wasn't in order to mess with the hag.**

 **Foxglove is a poisonous plant. It can cause** **vomiting, loss of appetite, confusion, blurred vision, changes in color perception, vertigo, and decreased energy, as well as an irregular heartbeat** **which can be either too fast or too slow. Nasty stuff.  
**

 **Woodland elves are not related in any way to North's band of idiotic "elves".**

 **If you have questions, PM me.**


	4. Guilty Thoughts 2

**A/N: Guess who's back...with part two of "Guilty Thoughts"!  
**

 **Honestly, I wasn't going to continue this one-shot, but people asked me to, so...::shrugs in a "what can you do" sort of way:: Anyway, there will likely be just one more part after this one. This won't be a terribly long arc.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

 _Jingle bells, jingle bells,_

 _Santa's still alive,_

 _All is good and fine and swell,_

 _In pure joy we thrive,_

 _Jingle bells, jingle bells,_

 _Jack's left in the rain_

 _But when things have gone so well,_

 _Why care for those in pain?_

* * *

It was 10:27 AM on Tuesday, September 23, and for the first time in almost a week, Bunny felt a little less panicked. North finally woke up half an hour ago, incoherent and in pain, but awake. The Guardian of Wonder only remained conscious for a few minutes, but it was enough to confirm that he was going to be fine.

Briefly, Bunny debated telling Jack the news. Bunny would freely admit he'd been a bit of an idiot to blame Jack so harshly for what had clearly been an accident, and while the winter spirit had been careless, he'd already paid tenfold the price for his actions. Jack deserved to know that North was alright.

Still...Bunny shied away from the thought of confronting the spirit. The Pooka had never been good at admitting when he was wrong, and somehow, apologizing to the annoying brat was far more difficult than doing the same to one of the other Guardians.

Then again, the kid probably felt horribly guilty…

...He'd talk to Jack later. Not now, but later. Maybe in an hour from now.

Decision reached, the Pooka nodded contentedly, and proceeded to forget about it entirely.

* * *

Three hours later, North woke again, this time for good. As soon as the yetis gave them the go-ahead, Bunny was quick to visit him in the infirmary, along with Tooth and Sandy.

Tooth, true to form, began fussing over the fallen warrior as soon as she flew into the room, spewing questions left and right as she darted around the Cossack like an excited hummingbird. "Are you alright? Do you need anything? How could you have been so careless, we were so _worried_..."

Sandy joined in the barrage of questions, sending up dozens of sand images so quickly that North had a hard time translating them, though he was sure they were inquiries as to his health. Bunny too appeared stricken, though he spoke little.

North grinned tiredly, looking pale and wan, yet triumphant as he lay in the infirmary bed. "Calm yourself, my friends. I am fine, see?"

The Pooka drew out a rag from his bandoleer and began polishing his boomerangs, voice stern yet laced with concern. "Ya damn near weren't, ya drongo. Yer lucky yer still alive after that."

North wrinkled his nose at the acrid scent of the polish Bunny was layering on the wood. "Bah! I am strong, like Russian bear. A simple sword will not kill me, Bunny."

"Perhaps. Yer still a drongo."

"As always."

A few moments of silence passed. It was neither awkward nor strained, instead filled with contented relief that they were all safe and sound, and well on the path to recovery.

Finally, North noticed something that made his brow furrow. He cleared his throat. "Bunny…"

The Pooka looked up.

"...Where is Jack?"

Bunny's eyes widened, giving him a dear-in-headlights appearance, as he abruptly remembered that no, he hadn't spoken to Jack like he'd meant to. He stuttered feebly. "Uh, well…"

North narrowed his blue eyes. "Yes?"

"...He's not here."

North's voice took on a bitingly sarcastic tone that Bunny wasn't even aware it could possess. "I can see that, Bunny. Where is he?"

The rabbit shared a glance with Tooth, who shrugged, equally embarrassed. Bunny bit his lower lip. "...I'm not sure."

"You do not know? Why is he not with you?"

Silence. Bunny looked away, suddenly ashamed and unwilling to answer the question. When North spoke again, it was in a softer, yet firmer tone of voice. "Bunny. What happened?"

Bunny sighed and turned his gaze back to his bedridden colleague. "I...may have yelled at him a little."

North frowned, worried. "Why?"

"Well, ya were hurt, and it was kinda his fault. So..."

"What did you say?"

Despite the fact that he was six foot one, Bunny suddenly felt extremely small underneath North's furious glare. The Russian rarely became truly angry, but he was a force to be reckoned with when he did.

The rabbit gulped, guilt taking hold as he remembered what he'd said to the winter spirit. "I said that it was his fault ya were injured, and that if ya died it would be because of him...I also called him a failure and a disgrace. And...and I said he wasn't fit ta be a Guardian."

A beat of silence.

"You said _what?"_

* * *

 _Inhale_

 _One, two, three, four, five…_

 _Exhale_

 _Inhale_

 _One, two, three, four, five…_

 _Exhale_

He found it both amusing and slightly sad that he was now forced to remind himself to breathe.

 _Inhale_

 _One, two, three..._

Sad because he was reduced from something that was competent and self-sufficient, to a pathetic being that could barely do something as simple as breathing. Amusing because it was ironic that he would die, again, from lack of oxygen…

Wait, no. He wasn't going to die.

...Was he?

 _...Four, five.  
_

 _Exhale_

 _Inhale_

 _One, two…_

He certainly felt like he was. The room was spinning, faster and faster, and it made him sick to the stomach. He gripped his staff tightly, thin fingers wound closely around the rough wood, and reminded himself to breathe.

 _...Three, four, five.  
_

 _Exhale_

Briefly, he wondered what would happen if he didn't breathe. Would he faint? Would his brain be damaged from the lack of oxygen? Would he fall into a coma? Suddenly, he was very interested by this.

 _Inhale_

 _One, two, three…_

The world jarred suddenly, blurring before shattering like a frosted windowpane, and he momentarily forgot to breathe. Half-deliriously, he considered that perhaps he should get up. Maybe if he stood, the room would put itself back together again.

His legs shook dangerously underneath him as he rose from his seat, and he found himself forced to use his staff for support. As soon as he was vertical, however, a wave of vertigo abruptly hit, and he quickly placed his free hand on the wall for additional support.

He realized he wasn't breathing.

 _Exhale_

 _Inhale_

 _One, two, three…_

 _..._

What came after three? He couldn't remember. There had to be something after three, right?

From far away, he thought he heard a thud, before the world went black.

* * *

 **A/N: Yes, Jack. After three, there's five. Everyone knows this. ::snickers::**

 **To clarify: The thud mentioned towards the end is Jack's body hitting the ground. Sometimes, when people faint, they hear their collision with the ground as if from far away.**

 **Also, as this is an arc, I bended the rules slightly. For arcs, it's not necessary for each part of the arc to contain the "I'm fine" line. I considered doing that at first, but it would be too hard, especially if at some point in the future I find myself saddled with a five or six chapter monster.**

 **Questions? PM me.**


	5. Guilty Thoughts 3

**A/N:**

 _ **To guest reviewer LionQueen:**_

 _ **I'm glad to see you back, LionQueen. Unfortunately, with regards to your story request, I have to say that I will likely be unable to complete it for you. I'm terribly sorry, but I've been trying to write it for the past few months and nothing good ever comes out. I don't want to ruin such a great idea by forcing it, so I'm afraid I'll have to pass on this idea. Again, I'm sorry for disappointing you and for keeping you waiting. I did try my best.**_

 _ **Yours,**_

 _ **~Techie**_

 **Disclaimer: I do not own RotG.**

* * *

 _Jingle bells, jingle bells,_

 _The end is bittersweet,_

 _All is good and fine and swell,_

 _But it's still incomplete,_

 _Jingle bells, jingle bells,_

 _Trust is still long dead,_

 _For when bad things do us befell,_

 _Further pain we dread_

* * *

 _"_ _Hurry up!"_

 _As if spoken by someone else, Bunny heard his own words echo off the blank white walls of the infirmary. He was terrified, terrified and utterly powerless, fearful that Jack would never wake up._

 _It was like last week all over again. The younger spirit lay perfectly motionless on the bed, eyes closed and breathing uneven, looking almost dead in his stillness. To see the normally energetic winter spirit so...unmoving_ _was downright disturbing._

 _The yetis ran around like roadrunners, frantic in their haste to fix the spirit._ _One of them, the_ _one whom Bunny recognized as Jack's impromptu physician of one week ago, looked particularly guilty at having misdiagnosed the condition of the youngest Guardian. Bunny felt half-tempted to go over and yell at the yeti for having been so cruelly wrong, but restrained himself. He himself was no less guilty._

 _As he watched the commotion of the infirmary, unable to help, he felt utterly wretched. How could he not have noticed that Jack needed help? He_ _ **knew**_ _it was just like the stubborn spirit to refuse medical aid unless he was tied down with piano wire. He should have known better than to assume that Jack would come to him for aid voluntarily._

 _He'd treated Jack cruelly for something that was beyond the winter spirit's control, and now both he and Jack were paying the heavy price._

 _He thought he felt North's accusing glare on his back from the corner of the room, but he ignored it._

* * *

Honestly, Jack didn't want to wake up.

Sleep was...well, peaceful. There was no raging guilt, no conflict, no tears, no pain, no judgmental kangaroos with anger issues. It was an opportunity to forget the sorrows and the torments of life.

You couldn't stay away from your problems forever, though, and as much as he wanted to sleep just a little longer, he knew there was no point in fighting consciousness. It was with a feeling of resignation, therefore, that he finally opened a pair of dull blue eyes.

...Strangely enough, he wasn't lying on the floor anymore. Instead, he was in a soft, warm, comfortable bed placed in what was clearly the infirmary of North's Workshop.

His languid gaze drifted slowly over the room, clearly not quite registering what it was seeing, as he wondered absently how he had gotten here. It was unthinkable that Bunny or Tooth or Sandy would have brought him here, after all. They clearly were upset with him, and there was no reason why they would help him after what'd he'd done to North-

North.

North should be in the infirmary.

As if struck by lighting, the winter spirit bolted upright. He had to find out about North, had to find out if his dreadful mistake could possibly be fixed-

Ow.

Ow, ow, _ow._

His face suddenly far paler than what was normal for him, Jack made the executive decision to lay back down, _gently_. He wasn't entirely sure where the pain was coming from, but it was severe enough to almost make him black out again. He probably shouldn't really move around that much just yet.

 _"_ _Moi mal'chik?_ _"_

Completely disregarding his own excellent advice, the youngest Guardian twisted around to see where the familiar voice was coming from. "North?"

To his left, a bed containing the Guardian of Wonder lay. The Guardian in question looked worried, brow creased as he frowned at his companion. "Jack? Are you well?"

Jack ignored the question, too caught up in senseless worries. "Are you alright?"

"I am fine. And you?"

Again, Jack ignored the question, instead checking to see if the older spirit told the truth. North looked weak and in pain, but seemed to be recovering, and it didn't look like he would suffer any lasting injuries.

Upon realizing this, the knot of guilt in Jack's chest loosened slightly. Certainly, he'd been stupid and careless, but at least none of his...colleagues would die because of his idiocy.

"...I'm sorry."

North looked shocked. "Sorry for what, Jack?"

Jack shifted awkwardly, and instantly regretted it as another stab of pain shot through his midsection. "Well, I got you injured, didn't I?"

North's gaze softened. "No, Jack. You did not."

"Don't be ridiculous. If I'd just _looked_ this never would have happened."

"Jack-"

"It's all my fault. I was stupid, I should have been more careful-"

 _"_ _Jack-"_

"You could have _died_ and it would have been my fault-"

"No, it wouldn't have. Because _I_ made decision for me to take blow, Jack. Not you. _I_ jumped in the way, and if I _had_ died, it would have been my and elf's fault, and no one else's. _You_ did not make decision for me, Jack, so you are not responsible."

Jack was flabbergasted. He'd fully expected North to blame him, to turn on him just as the others had. To have North not only absolve him of any crime, but to also take the blame on his own shoulders...well, Jack had not been expecting that at all.

Still, a part of him continued to insist that it was his fault. That he was lucky North hadn't died because of him. That at the earliest opportunity, he should leave the Guardians and never come back, leave so he wouldn't screw up their lives ever again.

He was too much of a liability. A lonely winter spirit with amateur combat skills, volatile and spastic powers, and no connections. He would do more harm than good by staying around.

Seeing the turmoil in his friend's eyes, the Cossack reached out across the space between the two beds and gingerly laid the tips of his beefy fingers on the winter spirit's shoulder. Jack jumped slightly at the contact, but at least his gaze lost some of its disturbing blankness as he glanced enquiringly at North.

North sighed. "Listen, Jack. I know that Bunny said many unpleasant things to you. I also know that Tooth and Sandy blamed you for my injury. But you are in no way guilty, and if I myself say you are not, then why do you still blame yourself? Hmm?"

That was...a very good question. A very, very good question. One Jack did not have an answer to.

"...I don't know."

"Exactly. You blame yourself because you are idiot. Stop it."

Despite himself, Jack smiled weakly, a queer feeling of relief taking over. "If you say so."

"I do. Now, for last time, how are you?"

"I'm...good."

* * *

At the end of it all, and to the relief of many, both North and Jack were perfectly fine. Bunny, Tooth, and Sandy all apologized profusely to the winter spirit, and their apologies were accepted with many statements of "don't worry about it" and "it's fine."

That didn't mean it _was_ fine, however. It would take a long time for these wounds to heal, for trust takes years to create and only seconds to shatter into pieces. Many months afterwards, Jack would still distance himself emotionally from the three, refusing to trust them with problems that could so easily be turned against him.

If he distanced himself from the three, however, he seemed to grow closer to North. He didn't exactly trust the Cossack quite yet, it was true, but at least he was less defensive and skittish in his presence.

Perhaps...perhaps this "being a Guardian" thing could work out. Perhaps.

For now, though, Jack was fine with the way things were.

* * *

 **A/N: Aaaand it's done. Bam. Finito. No more of this arc, sorry.**

 **I...don't quite like my ending (and why can't I write dialogue anymore oh my MiM) but eh. I tried.**

 **To be honest, I wanted a hopeful ending, but not one where "oh, they apologized and everything is fine now" because that's not how life works. Sometimes, apologizing isn't enough, and wounds can only be healed with time.  
**

 **I hope you liked this arc, and will continue to enjoy future one-shots in this collection. If you have questions, feel free to PM me.**

 **Techie out.**


	6. A Cutthroat Situation

**A/N: This little mess was inspired by an offhand remark a guest reviewer made on Ch.2...**

 ** _"_** _ **I guess the point of [Chapter 2] is Jack could find a way to say 'I'm fine' even if his throat WAS cut open." -**_ **Guest** _ **  
**_

 **Seriously, don't make offhand comments like that, guys. You might inspire crazy ideas.  
**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

 _ _London Bridge is falling down,__

 _ _Falling down, falling down,__

 _ _London Bridge is falling down,__

 _ _My fair lady,__

 _ _Build it up with__ _ _blood and bone,__

 _ _Blood and bone,__ __blood and bone,__

 _ _Build it up with__ _ _blood and bone,__

 _ _My fair lady,__

 _ _Blood and bone__ _ _can't seem to stay,__

 _ _Seem to stay, seem to stay,__

 _ _Blood and bone__ _ _can't seem to stay,__

 _ _My fair lady,__

 _ _For they merely rip and tear,__

 _ _Rip and tear,__ __rip and tear,__

 _ _For they merely rip and tear,__

 _ _My fair lady.__

* * *

"Well, Nick? What will it be?"

Jack...hadn't expected this to happen, honestly.

He should have, come to think of it. He'd been mostly on the sidelines for the past three hundred years, unnoticed by the vast majority of the spirit world. Most of them had barely known who "Jack Frost" even _was_ , let alone cared enough about it to try and hold him _hostage_.

That all changed, though, when he became a Guardian. Guardians were pretty high up in the pecking order, and whenever a new one was appointed, the entirety of the spirit world perked up and took notice. From a nobody, Jack became a well-known figure, and there were few who didn't know who he was, what he did, and what his favorite flavor of jam was (it was strawberry, by the way).

This, while not unpleasant, came with its disadvantages. While it was true that dozens recognized and respected Jack's newfound glory, dozens more realized that they could twist this new state of affairs to their own advantage. Jack was powerful magically, but not especially strong physically, so kidnapping him or holding him hostage was not necessarily impossible, as long as you went about it the right way. Once you had the frost spirit in your grasp, of course, you were in a position to start making demands from the other Guardians.

Which brought him to where he was now, namely inside North's office at the Workshop,being restrained by a crazed harpy as the winged creature held a sharp knife to his throat.

The three were the only ones in the room, meaning that neither Jack nor North could expect help from any quarter, unless a yeti happened to enter the room by chance. The harpy clearly realized this, for she grinned at North, her brown eyes glinting with undisguised malice."Better make you choice quickly, sweetheart. My hand might just _slip."_

As if to enforce her point, she brought the knife closer to Jack's throat, the cool metal grazing lightly against his jugular and feeling as if it were burning into his skin. Her manic smile grew wider as his breathing stuttered to a frightened halt.

North's voice rumbled as he glared at her from behind his mahogany desk, blue eyes blazing. "What do you want?"

She giggled lightly, even as she tightened her hold on Jack. "What does anyone want? I want power, Nicholas. Power that only you can provide."

"I do not know what you mean."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't you? I thought it was obvious. After all, you did the same for your little frosted friend here, didn't you?"

"I have already told you, Aquila. I cannot make you Guardian, unless you are chosen by the Man in the Moon. Now let go of Jack."

She purred, feathers ruffling. "How cute. You honestly believe that you're in a position to make demands."

North looked ready to explode, but Jack knew he wouldn't be of any help. As much as he wanted to deny it, he had to admit that Aquila currently held all the cards. North would not make any move to attack the demented harpy unless Jack was safe.

On the other hand, giving the harpy a Guardianship would be nothing short of disastrous. She was a combination of all the traits that one least wanted to see in a Guardian, from a horrible temper to a rampant case of megalomania.

They were at a crossroads, with no way out.

Unless...

...The only way North could attack her was if the threat to Jack was eliminated, and since Jack couldn't escape, the only way the threat could be eliminated…

...Was if it were rendered null and void by some other means.

The knife was ridiculously close, and practically vibrating with magic. It was a crazy and potentially fatal plan, but one that might just work. With only the barest of hesitations, Jack suddenly threw himself forward as much as he was able, slashing his own throat with the knife.

It was more painful than he expected it to be. The metal tore through flesh, setting nerve-endings aflame as it neatly severed his jugular vein. Within seconds, blood began pouring like it was water, painting his skin bright red and soaking greedily into his hoodie.

Squawking in surprise, the harpy abruptly let go of the rapidly bleeding winter spirit. She panicked as he half-collapsed to the ground, dripping blood all over the floor, and with a shriek, she darted from the room, her clawed feet clacking against the wooden floor.

Startled, North rose from behind his desk and made to move towards the injured winter spirit, but was stopped by a hoarse command. "North! You need to catch up with her!"

"But Jack-"

Jack hissed in pain and impatience as he held a pale hand to his ripped and bleeding throat. He knew he didn't have much time before he lost consciousness, for he felt faint and lightheaded, and his vision was already graying out at the edges. "I-I'm fine, North. Just go. Please."

After a short moment of hesitation, North gave him a look that indicated he would return shortly, before running off after the harpy, unsheathing his swords on the way out.

Now alone, Jack lowered himself fully to the ground, leaning his back against the wall as he bled profusely. With a visible effort, he shuddered as he began to freeze over the wound, frost creeping at an excruciatingly slow pace as it gradually plugged the severed vein.

Now out of danger, he considered briefly going after North, but decided against it. He felt far too weak from the blood loss to start running about fighting harpies, and would be more of a hindrance than a help to the vengeful Guardian of Wonder.

Besides, the floor looked very inviting. Perhaps he could take a short rest…

He was out like a light merely two minutes later.

* * *

 **A/N: Not very happy with it, but too tired to edit. I had a long day.  
**

 **Depending on the way your throat is cut, it may be possible for you to speak afterwards. If just the vein is severed, you should be able to speak. If the trachea is damaged, that's another matter, but it's not what happens in this case.**

 **Harpies are creatures that are part-eagle, part-woman.**

 **Questions? PM me.**

 **Techie out.**


	7. Deadity 1

**A/N: First part of a two-shot. The first bit here is a little boring, but the next part will be better, hopefully.**

 **This is just another one of my pathetic attempts at dark humor. Next part will however be a _lot_ darker, and contain quite a bit more WTF, so be warned.**

 **Speaking of warnings...**

 **Warnings: Some cursing.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own RotG**

* * *

 _"_ _Well, what if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today."_ -Phil Conners, in "Groundhog Day"

* * *

Jack blinked.

He was dead. Of that, he was certain. Not only was the profusely bleeding hole in his chest an adequate indication, but he didn't know of any place except for Death's that was decorated entirely in obsidian.

He was definitely dead.

...Come to think of it, the Guardians probably were as well. The explosion had been a large one, and he doubted they had survived—

"Jack?"

Ah. There they were. Grinning jauntily, he turned to them. "Good morning."

Four pairs of eyes stared at him in disbelief. He continued. "Nice day, today, isn't it? Except without the 'day' or the 'nice.' Or even the 'today.'"

Tooth frowned, clearly doubting his sanity. "Jack, where are we?"

"Ah, I forgot. You've never been here before, have you?"

"...No..."

"Then I suppose I must introduce you. Welcome, " he said, as he made a sweeping gesture with his arms to denote the interior of the massive obsidian palace they were in, the effect made comical by the heavy blue-and-gray bloodstained war cloak he was currently wearing, "to Deadity."

When it was clear he wasn't going to continue further, Bunny felt a small comment was appropriate. "What?"

Jack sighed, arms still upraised. "To put it simply...You, and I, are dead. Dead, dead, _dead_."

He allowed the words to sink in, before continuing, oblivious to his friends' growing panic as he gestured dramatically towards the various indistinguishable parts of the perfectly uniform structure. "In your first, and hopefully final, venture into deadness, you may notice a lack of...well, anything. As you may have gathered, about one hundred percent of all such concepts as weather, light, dark, air, time, and the like are conspicuously absent. Be _very_ alarmed."

"Wait, do you mean we're...dead?"

He ignored them. "Remember how, when we were alive, we spent so much time wandering around saving the world? Well, this is exactly like that, except without the wandering. And without the 'saving the world'. And without time."

There were a few moments of awkward silence, as the Guardians stared bemusedly at Jack. At last, Tooth spoke up. "...Jack, are you...alright?"

"I'm fine, Tooth, thank you for asking. About as fine as a dead person can be, that is."

"...You can't be serious."

"Yes, I can. We are, indeed, dead. I should know, after all, this isn't the first time I've died."

Judging by their shocked faces, he doubted they really understood what he was saying. Mentally, he shrugged. They'd get it soon enough.

"...We're _dead._ "

 _Finally._ "Yes."

"You're _joking._ "

A new voice, one that four of them weren't currently familiar with, suddenly spoke up from somewhere. "Actually, he isn't."

* * *

"Ah, Morticia. Long time no see, isn't it?"

The woman nodded briefly in agreement at Jack's greeting, gray eyes scornful. "Around three hundred twenty-seven years, to be exact. I'm still upset about that, by the way."

Jack twirled his staff absentmindedly. "Well, you know how it is. Man in the Moon, becoming a Guardian, saving the world, yada yada yada. My resurrection was just an unfortunate side effect."

"Indeed," Morticia's lip curled. "Glad to see you've been having fun."

Jack chuckled nervously, even as he clutched his staff tighter.

Rolling her eyes, Morticia snapped her stone-gray fingers, summoning a macabre-looking obsidian throne that was so cliché it was almost physically painful to look at. With a flourish of her black robes, the Keeper of the Dead sat down in the glorified chair.

"So," she began, "let's get down to business, Frost."

"Gladly."

"Wait, what's going on—"

"Shut up, Bunny."

Morticia smiled grimly, before opting to ignore the two. "Unfortunately, Frost, there has been a slight...hitch."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It seems that one of my more stupid Reapers screwed up a little...I'll be frank and say that you four aren't actually supposed to be dead yet."

"...What."

"Exactly. So, normally in these cases I'd bring you back to life. However, since you're spirits, this is a very complicated process and I can't be bothered to deal with it right now."

"Wait—"

"One moment, please. Now, if I had my way, I'd simply leave you alone to rot here. It's not like your premature death will really affect the time-line much. You lot aren't particularly useful to the world, anyway."

North protested. "We protect the children—"

"From monsters under the bed, yes. We get the point, North. But you mostly protect them from fear, and let's face it: if people are a little more fearful than normal, that doesn't change much in the grand scheme of things."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "So, why this little chat, if you're going to leave us to die?"

"Well...there's a problem. I need one of you to go back to the world of the living for a few hours, to grab me a necklace from Ireland."

"...A necklace."

"Yes. It's...complicated. Has to do with the Butterfly Effect and all that crap, so I need to have it or else human civilization will die out within the next two thousand years. Don't ask why, it's just Destiny being a picky bitch, as usual...Anyway, I specifically need Frost to do it, because again, Destiny."

Jack stared at her incredulously. "So, you're going to let us die early, doom the children of the world to a life of fear—"

"It's not that bad—"

"Excuse me, there's a Fearling _war_ going on right now. That's how we died, after all—in battle. There are hundreds of them all over the place. If we're dead, they'll win, and fear will reign forever."

"...Point."

"Thank you. Anyway, you want to doom the children to a life of fear, and not only this, but you want us to _help_ you as well because you're too lazy to do your own job?"

"I don't want _all_ of you lot to help, Jack. Just you alone. But yeah, more or less, you've got it right."

"I refuse. Either you bring us all back to life, or you don't get your necklace."

"Not happening."

Before Jack could protest again, Morticia snapped her fingers, and the winter spirit disappeared.

There was a long silence, before Tooth turned to Morticia. "I don't think he'll help you."

"Oh, he will. Don't worry."

* * *

 **A/N: Morticia Persephone is Death. She's not a spirit, but a Keeper [Keepers are different, and there are only three: Keeper of the Dead (Morticia), Keeper of the Living (Gaia), and Keeper of the Balance (Mother Nature)]. Her palace is on the border between life and death and has no physical form in either domain, instead existing in a sort of alternate world.**

 **Also, she evidently doesn't know Jack very well.**

 **Questions? PM me.**


	8. Sol 1

**A/N: ::demented smile:: Heeeere's Techie!**

 **Anyway, yes, I'm back! Not with a new chapter of Deadity, though, unfortunately. That arch is posing a few... _problems..._ ::glares at Deadity arch::**

 **Deadity Arch: ::whimpers and hides under sofa::**

 **::blinks and wonders how the heck an _arch_ could do that:: Ooookay...anyway, instead of the next bit of Deadity (which I WILL post soon, I PROMISE), instead have the beginning of...another arch.**

 **...**

 **I need to stop with these new archs.**

 **Anyway, I hope you like!**

 **Warnings: Physical abuse.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG. I do own my personal re-imagining of the Egyptian sun god Ra, so I'd appreciate it if you asked for permission first before using him (I will most likely grant it).**

* * *

"A pleasure to meet you at last, Ra."

"Likewise, Nicholas." The sun god seemed far from pleased as he made this statement, looking downright bored as he glanced carelessly at the splendor of the Tooth Palace, hazel-amber eyes scornful.

He was a handsome man, handsome in the way that a coral snake often is. He appeared young and vigorous, yet he had a proud, haughty way of carrying himself that betrayed his overly inflated ego, and his eyes shone with a malicious cunning. He was not alone, for on his right shoulder, an amber-feathered hawk was perched dreamily, staring off into space with a stupefied expression on its face.

North cleared his throat nervously. "I have heard you are in need of our help?"

The sun god sighed exasperatedly as he raked his thin, tanned fingers through his golden-brown hair. "Unfortunately, yes. As much as I have no wish to mix with common spirits, you are the only ones that can assist me. A pity, but unavoidable."

Ever short-tempered, Bunny was already quietly seething. North shot his companion a warning glance before turning back to Ra. "And how may we help you?"

Ra raised a sand-white eyebrow. "...Are all of your friends trustworthy?"

"I would trust any of them with my life."

Ra looked pensive. "Indeed? Well, I suppose you know your companions well...my problem is as follows-"

He trailed off suddenly, gaze furious, as if he'd just realized something which he found utterly despicable. A few moments of awkward silence passed, before Ra spoke again. "I...was not aware that you kept such detestable filth as _winter spirits_ around, Nicholas."

Jack bristled, the familiar ring of hatred that so often accompanied those words putting him on the defensive. The other Guardians seemed confused at the sudden tension that filled the air, as both Ra and Jack glared at each other.

North cleared his throat. "Ra, I do not believe you understand. Jack is new Guardian."

Ra's face twisted into a mocking sneer. "Oh? How... _quaint_."

Everyone, even North, picked up on the biting sarcasm in the sun god's words, and as one they stiffened. They were not ignorant of the fact that winter spirits were not generally well-appreciated in the spirit world, and only an idiot would have failed to pick up on the fact that Ra was such a judgmental personality. The sun god's disdainful glare and deprecating smirk was adequate indication of it.

Bunny was first to speak, voice harsh like wrathful sandpaper. "Got a problem with it?"

Ra blinked mildly. "Not at all, my dear Bunnymund. I simply found it strange that such a... _powerful_ group as the Guardians would recruit a winter spirit. Especially as they're well known for being volatile and uncontrollable, as well as savage. Hardly the most reliable helper, and more prone to being a hindrance rather than a help-"

"Well, Jack's not like that, and until he is, we're keeping him. Now, any other objections, _Yer Highness?"_

"None whatsoever."

Somehow, as Ra leveled a significant look at the unnerved winter spirit, Bunny doubted that.

* * *

Slowly, the six spirits wandered around the Tooth Palace, Ra seemingly oblivious to the brilliance around him as he spoke animatedly to the Guardians while ignoring Jack completely. He talked of trouble in Egypt, stating that the Egyptian gods were dying out due to long periods of lack of belief, yet he seemed strangely unconcerned at the plight of his fellow gods and at the death which would soon await him.

Despite himself, Jack couldn't help but dwell on Ra's earlier words. They were not unfamiliar or original, it was true, for he'd been insulted and degraded dozens of times before, but something about the way Ra had said them made them stick in his mind, refusing to let him think of anything else. Somehow, the scornful glances and the hateful tone nagged at him, not letting go, as if his mind was trying to...warn him?

He was broken out of his train of thought when Tooth buzzed right in front of him, darting about like an excited bumblebee as she shot out words at about a mile a minute. "I think I know of something that can help you, Ra. It's a special gem that's over in Mongolia, I'm not sure where, but I do have a map in the storage that can help." She turned to one of her little fairies. "Adhira, do you think you could-"

"I'll go."

Tooth blinked, startled. "Jack, are you sure? One of my fairies could-"

Jack insisted, eager to get away from Ra for a little while. "Nah, it's fine. I can go. You said it was in the storage, right?"

"Yep! Door Five, Shelf Ten, Compartment Three."

Jack grinned as he jumped into the Wind's embrace. "On it!"

* * *

As he dashed alone into the darkened storage room, Jack couldn't help but feel a little freer. The worrisome thoughts still nagged at him, it was true, but now that he was no longer in Ra's presence they tugged less than before, the warning bells muted. He was being silly, after all, Ra may be an unpleasant and rude fellow, but he wouldn't dare hurt Jack.

Smiling easily, he reached out for Door Five's glided handle.

Suddenly, with overpowering force, an alien clutch seized him from behind, flipped him around, and shoved him back against the wall. He cried out in surprise as he struggled wildly against the iron grip, which pinned him steadily against the colorful wall by his right wrist and left shoulder.

He looked up to see hazel-amber eyes glaring down on him viciously, Ra's height far dwarfing his own. Defensively, he pointed his staff at his attacker as best he could, but with a squawk, the hawk abruptly snapped out of its stupor, taking to the air only to snatch the aged branch out of the winter spirit's grasp and carry it far out of his reach. Fearful, he tried to pull away, but in vain.

Smirking in a distinctly predatory manner, the sun god loomed threateningly over the thrashing frost spirit, delighting in the power he wielded. His smirk grew wider as he drew a wince from his prey, his firm grip on the winter spirit's wrist beginning to literally burn away at the skin, filling the air with the pungent, noxious smell of scorched flesh.

"How pathetic. And to think that I was afraid _you_ could actually cause problems. Why, it's a miracle you've even survived so long, if you're so easy to defeat."

Jack glowered up at him as best he could, yet the fear in his gaze betrayed his underlying terror. "Let me go."

"Oh, I'm planning to. Can't have Nicholas worrying about his precious little weapon, can we?" The deity chuckled, even as his hold on Jack tightened, intensifying the pain and the burning smell that were both making Jack's head spin. The agonized spirit felt as if he were suffocating, the smoke and the close proximity of his tormentor both putting his nerve on edge.

Still, through the haze, one word stuck out. "Weapon?"

He cried out as more pressure was placed on his searing wrist, increasing his distress tenfold. By this point, his wrist was charred black as charcoal, the flesh cracked and weeping fluid.

Nonchalantly, the sun king shrugged. "Why, of course. What, is it so surprising? It's not as if you are terribly useful for much else, after all."

Jack opened his mouth to reply, anger churning in his veins, but before he could utter a word, a crystal-clear voice echoed down the hall.

"Jack! Jack, are you there?"

It was Tooth. Relief took the place of Jack's fear as Ra was forced to let him go. It was only short-lived, however, when the Egyptian god towered over him, expression threatening.

"Tell anyone of what has happened here, and you will not be the only one to suffer, Frost."

With no further comment, the king vanished, his hawk disappearing with him. Jack only had time to scramble for his fallen staff and to pull down his sleeve over his injured wrist before Tooth appeared around the corner, purple eyes vaguely concerned.

"Jack, is everything alright? It's just that we can't find Ra and you've been taking a while..."

She trailed off, then, but her meaning was clear. She was worried that Ra had hurt him, his hatred of winter spirits spurring him on to harm the younger spirit.

Briefly, Jack felt tempted to inform her of what had just occurred, but he hesitated. Ra's parting words stopped him, gagging and binding him with the threat of potentially injuring the other Guardians. Had it been only himself who was endangered, he would have freely given away the information, but he could not risk imperiling his companions, no matter the cost. Ra was weakened, but he had been a god long ago, and was still a force to be reckoned with.

 _Tell anyone of what has happened here, and you will not be the only one to suffer, Frost._

He shivered, suddenly feeling alone and horribly vulnerable.

"...I'm fine, Tooth."

* * *

 **A/N: I feel like it's a little rushed, but eh. I tried my best.  
**

 **That said, who wants to kill Ra? ::offers pitchfork and torches::**

 **Got questions? PM me.**

 **Techie out.**


	9. Sol 2

**A/N: Oooof, me is tired. Also, too much Ra, too little "Deadity". Bad writer, bad.**

 **Although you guys seem to like the Ra arch, so I suppose it's fine?**

 **Warnings: Physical abuse.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG. WHICH IS A GOOD THING.**

* * *

Five days later, and it seemed like Ra was there to stay. Ever hospitable, Tooth had offered him a temporary room in the Tooth Palace while they sorted out his difficulties, and he had accepted the offer with a grace that was born of many years of egotism and self-entitlement. After the initial awkwardness, the rest of the Guardians appeared to be getting along exceedingly well with Ra, Tooth especially fascinated by the sun god's pristine sand-white teeth, and Sandy always ready to hear stories about the Egyptian gods. The group was throwing itself headlong into the task of figuring out how to help Ra, each attempting to assist in their own special way.

The only one who wasn't particularly enthusiastic was Jack Frost. He alone saw through the sun god's self-ingratiating act, the burn marks on his arm a painful reminder of just what the god was capable of. His fellow Guardians were playing with fire all too literally for Jack's taste.

He was, however,the only one who realized the great danger that they were all in, and he was sworn to silence. A silence that grew rapidly more difficult to maintain, the more time passed.

If Ra had been bold before, he was insufferable now. Eager to put Jack "in his place" as he put it, the god now took every opportunity to harass the winter spirit. That moment in the storage room was but the first of many, and the longer the sun god stuck around, the more Jack's injuries, both physical and mental, multiplied. The charred wrist was soon accompanied by burns on his arms and chest, ranging from moderate to severe, and at each attack he was warned not to mention it to a single soul, lest payments be demanded in other's blood.

Countless times, he found himself on the brink of spilling the beans, only to stop himself just in time. His heart and soul were urging him on, begging him to _tell, tell, tell,_ but fear and loyalty made a strong barrier that he was unwilling to overcome.

He was stuck in a tight corner with no way out, and it was killing him on the inside.

* * *

The setting was familiar, an out-of-the-way corner of the Tooth Palace, unpopulated by fairies who could act as witnesses to unsavory events. Where exactly he was, Jack neither knew nor cared, for he was far more occupied with other, more important, matters.

Wincing, he ducked as a thin, fragile-looking hand darted towards him. He was a nanosecond too late, however, the fingers snatching at his collarbone and leaving shiny burns in their wake, branding him as a coward and a liar. A grab for his damaged wrist was quick to follow, long nails burying themselves in his skin and reopening the healing scars, before he was abruptly shoved to the ground.

Instinctively, he scrambled to get back up, scrabbling helplessly at the wall beside him as he hoisted himself back onto his feet. A futile move, considering that he was facing a god who was far more powerful than he would ever be.

Ra smirked as he shoved the smaller spirit back down. "Remarkably persistent, aren't we, boy?"

He glared up at the taller spirit before struggling wordlessly back to his feet, and with a bored sigh, Ra took him by the shoulders and pinned him effortlessly to the wall. A hand slipped under his hoodie, and Jack hissed in pain as the palm burned into the small of his back, searing at his skin.

"You just never learn, do you?" Ra remarked conversationally, as he adjusted his hold. The younger spirit gave an agonized yelp as the sun god's nails dug themselves in his skin, ripping it down to the blood vessels. Headless of the chilled blood now coating his fingers, Ra poured some of his magic into his victim's veins, before dropping the teen like a hot brick and stepping back to watch the effects.

He was not disappointed. Jack was a winter spirit, after all, and to try and force sun magic into his bloodstream could be nothing short of disastrous. Before long, Jack was shaking and trembling pathetically on the tiled ground, as his body reacted violently to the foreign magic.

"It won't kill you, of course. There's not nearly enough to do so. But it should provide an interesting spectacle for a few minutes."

In between convulsions, Jack did his best to scowl at the sun god, but was cut off by an involuntary wince. The alien magic curdled in his blood, setting him aflame and destroying him cell by cell, while seizing his heart in a vice-like grip. Shuddering, he curled into a ball and reminded himself to breathe.

 _In, out, in, out, in, out…_

Slowly, far too slowly, the effects began to wear off, tremors gradually fading away and rapid heartbeat reluctantly returning to normal. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Ra sneering condescendingly at him, and a small surge of anger clawed at his insides before he forced it back down.

 _Don't irritate him...Whatever you do, don't irritate him…_

"Are all winter spirits this pathetic?"

Despite himself, he snapped back, the customary chill of defiance in his quavering voice. "N-not as pathetic as you a-are. Only a c-coward would k-kick a downed m-man."

Ra stared at him, face emotionless, and Jack worried that he might have gone too far…

...A worry that was entirely justified when the Egyptian man leapt for his throat.

A grasp that was as inflexible as steel wrapped itself around his neck, choking him and prompting him to struggle for breath, before it lifted him and threw him at the wall. He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, crumbling in a pitiable heap to the ground, broken and worthless, ephemeral and crushed.

He didn't dare to get back up until Ra left, the god's footsteps echoing further and further away, leaving him alone and shattered on the rainbow-hued floor.

* * *

He needed to come to a decision.

Jack paced, or rather limped, around his guest room in the Tooth Palace. Due to the current emergency that held their attention, all the Guardians were now stationed temporarily in the palace, each sequestered in their own little room in the magnificent structure.

Jack, however, was oblivious to the brilliance, worry blinding him better than any blindfold could. It was clear he had underestimated the lengths Ra would go to in order to hurt and destroy others, miscalculated just how hateful the god was.

The sun king's actions were not only the result of animosity and prejudice, they were also the product of _madness._

It scared Jack. He'd thought at first that he could simply wait this out, bearing the pain in silence until Ra left, and no one would be the wiser. Now, though, the circumstances had changed, and he was no longer certain if it would be that easy. With a deranged and psychopathic sun god on the loose, incapable of reason, who knew if Jack's silence alone could keep his fellow Guardians safe? Ra could lash out just the same, promises or no promises, deal or no deal. All it would take was one wrong move, one false word, and all hell would break loose.

Would it not better if the Guardians knew of the danger, so they could prepare themselves accordingly?

...On the other hand, would they even believe him? They had to, didn't they?

Didn't they?

* * *

"Lateral incisor on Mayflower Road, Illinois! Premolar on Gosling Avenue, New South Wales, Australia! Hi Jack! Canine on Cassel Lane, Davis, California, and watch out for the heavy rains!"

Jack took a deep breath, steeling himself for the task that came ahead. He directed a mental prayer at whoever may be listening, before turning to the hyperactive fairy, hoping fervently that he was doing the right thing.

"Hey, Tooth. Do you have a moment? I kinda need to talk to you about something..."

* * *

 **A/N: Argh, I am not too happy with this chapter. Especially the Ra-beats-up-Jack scene. That one fought me so much. (Speaking of which..::hands out knives:: You know what to do.)  
**

 **Before you ask, no, things don't end quite yet. That would be too simple, too cut and dry. No, there will be added complications, and Jack won't be getting out of this mess so easily... ::tired yet evil chuckle::**

 **Also, the streets Tooth mentioned are all real.**

 **Questions? PM me.**

 **Techie out.**


	10. Ferality

**A/N: Well, here it is. The 3000-word-long Feral!Jack fic that shouldn't exist but...does, now. Do you believe me when I say I wrote this by accident? Cuz it's true.  
**

 **...And yes, I _promise_ the next chapter will be Sol 3. Cross my center, hope to fly, stick a...um, what's connected to RotG?...Argh...I'm out of ideas...**

 **Well, you get the point. The next chapter _will_ be Sol 3. Unless there's, like, another 3000-word long fic which randomly pops out of nowhere, demanding to be written, in which case...well, what can I do?**

 **Hope you like!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

He was horribly injured, blackened burns marring his pale skin, warping and cracking the flesh until the breaks leaked clear fluid. He bled profusely from a knife-wound in his left shoulder, his hoodie soaking up the dark red blood thirstily as the liquid dribbled down his arm, and his right leg was twisted awkwardly at the knee, bent almost completely backward and forcing him to cling onto tree branches for support.

Damn the summer sprites. Damn their prejudice. Damn his stupidity in allowing them to take his staff away and toss it MiM knew where…

Wincing painfully, he limped pathetically through the forest, his progress painfully slow as he slipped and stumbled on loose leaves and tree roots. He gritted his teeth as his broken leg jarred agonizingly with every move he made, and once again cursed both the summer sprites and his own simple-minded idiocy.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of stabbing pain, he blundered upon a small cave nestled snugly among the trees. He practically crawled the last few steps, dragging himself across the muddy ground on all fours, bits of dirt and debris gathering on his person as he clambered into the cavern.

It was thankfully empty, with no traces of an already-present inhabitant. Sighing in relief, he inched his way into the cave and the blissful coolness he found there, moving as far away from the entrance as he could before finally collapsing, panting from the effort as he closed his eyes. He knew he should at least try to fix his many wounds, especially his leg, but he simply felt too tired to do so.

He would rest here awhile, he decided. Rest here until he felt better, then find his staff, and then go and give those summer sprites hell.

With that thought in mind, he soon fell into a feverish sleep.

* * *

The Guardians were...well, worried, most of all. It was three days since any of them had last seen their youngest member, which was highly unusual. Jack was a loner first and foremost, but he often showed up to visit one of them,never allowing a gap of more than two days between visits.

The problem was, their newest member,who so often needed to be found, always hated being followed. Hence why they had lingered, undecided, unsure whether to look for him or not.

When three days grew into four, and then into five, they swiftly changed their tune.

Bunny tracked him down, leading the three other Guardians on a winding trail down to one of the many redwood forests that grew on the coast of northern California. Wisps of fog clung to the trees as the four walked briskly through the forest, leaves crunching under their feet as they followed the stray teen's footsteps.

Their worry grew when footsteps were mixed with dripping blood, when steady, even footprints turned to scrabbling marks that looked like a toddler's drawing. Bloody hand marks stained every tree on their path, showing where Jack had hung onto them in order to keep his balance, and once or twice there was a place where twigs and bushes were crushed, revealing where he'd tumbled and fallen before dragging himself back upright.

It was nerve-wracking, but finally they reached the end of their journey, a small cave huddled in the ground, small and homely. A macabre trail of splattered blood led to the entrance, and, nervously, they ducked one by one into the grotto.

Even before their eyes grew accustomed to the newfound darkness, they noticed a huddled, shadowy figure in the back of the cave, shaded except for the blaze of two shiny blue eyes, glittering maniacally with stray light from the entrance, that glared at them with a delirious malevolence. Relieved, they lurched towards their found companion, but were stopped in their tracks when an unnatural, feral growl echoed within the cave, warning them not to come any nearer.

It was a few moments before one of them moved, the fairy taking a step towards the teen, a question on her lips. Her words died away before they were spoken, as she was startled into silence by a second, more desperate growl.

Biting her lip, uncertain how to handle the situation, she stepped forward once more. This time, a savage snarl ripped the air, the winter spirit's pristine white teeth flashing menacingly in the dim light as he ferociously snapped his teeth. He shied away from her, scurrying away like a frightened mouse, a strained whimper escaping him when he jostled his clearly injured leg. Hands raised in a pacifying gesture, Tooth drew back, ducking her head in a submissive manner to show that she meant no harm.

Jack eyed her with a harshly suspicious glare, his fever-addled mind seeing danger where there was none. Instead of his coworkers, he saw four intruders that had entered his territory, four beings who were more powerful than he, and who had come while he was damaged and helpless. As one of them moved slightly towards him again, he bared his teeth in a threatening manner, telling them sternly to _stay away from him or else._

Now out of ideas, the four sane Guardians shared a glance, debating what to do next. As much as they didn't like to admit it, this situation was out of their hands. There was no way to help Jack without making matters worse.

Finally fed up, Sandy huffed silently before marching towards his wounded friend, disregarding the snarls that accompanied his actions. Before any of them could blink, Sandy was standing in front of a frightened winter spirit who was fearfully trying to scuttle away. Letting loose a quiet sigh, the Sandman crouched in front of Jack, making himself appear as small and unassuming as possible. He kneeled, patient and unmoving, doing his best to look innocent and harmless as Jack scrutinized him distrustfully.

At last, after a long silence, Jack relaxed slightly, bunched-up muscles loosening as he accepted the presence of this bizarre, yet seemingly innocuous trespasser. Even from a foot away, Sandy could feel the heat of the fever radiating off of the younger spirit. They had to help him, and soon, but Jack still had too much adrenaline in his system to sleep, and to throw a dream-sand ball now would only aggravate him. They'd have to find a way to get Jack to cooperate, to take him to one of their homes so he could recover.

Carefully, the Sandman reached out slowly for the spirit's unhurt arm, pausing briefly at Jack's growl before continuing the motion. Timidly, he laid his pudgy hand on the thin arm, breathing halted as he waited for Jack's reaction. The mentally imbalanced frost spirit watched him levelly, and Sandy evenly met the cold blue stare with his own golden-brown one. They stood like that for a moment, each daring the other to make the next move.

At length, Jack looked down and away, his gaze downcast in a submissive gesture. If this invader indeed chose to attack him, he was in no position to fight. It would be better to give in now, before a battle broke out, so that he could escape with as few lacerations as possible.

Sandy, on the other hand, was overjoyed. He had made progress, progress that would hopefully allow Jack to work _with_ them instead of _against_ them. While dream-sand was still not an option, he could at least try to lead Jack to a place where he could be helped.

Still, he needed to take it slowly. Jack may have surrendered, but he was still scared, and one wrong move would bring them back to square zero with little hope of recovery.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the Sandman gently grasped Jack's arm, delicately standing as he drew the spirit to his feet. He waited for Jack to adjust his position, the teen's cold fingers winding around his golden shoulder, before laboriously beginning to guide him outside the cave, motioning to his fellow Guardians to stand aside.

Once outside, Jack hissed and shrunk back slightly, eyes unused to the harsh glare of light. He still looked frenzied, eyes shining with ferality as he took in his surroundings, on the alert for potential danger, occasionally growling at Bunny, North, or Tooth. Sandy shared a glance with North, and the Cossack spoke while keeping his distance. "To Workshop?"

Despite North's attempts to be as quiet as possible, Jack still winced at the rumbling voice, upper lip curling slightly. Sandy shook his head: the Workshop was too noisy, too busy, and it would only terrify Jack further. Instead, he created a pictogram of a tree and an egg.

"Warren?"

Again, Jack flinched, and Sandy nodded frantically. Frowning, the Guardian of Wonder nevertheless complied, drawing out a snowglobe and smashing it against the ground, voice rumbling in a command of "To Warren!"

The combination of shout and splintering crash startled Jack, but the sudden appearance of a colorful portal sealed the deal. He turned back, snarling, trying to escape, but Sandy would have none of it, a sand rope wrapping around the teen's waist before tossing him unceremoniously through the portal.

Then, shrugging at his companions' shocked faces, the Sandman bounded through the portal, leaving them to follow him.

On the other side of the portal, he found a confused and anxious Jack, who gazed at his new surroundings with hopeless bewilderment. Comfortingly, Sandy took the winter spirit by the arm and escorted him, hobbling, through the Warren, until they reached what appeared to be an entrance of a cave. It was, in fact, the entrance to Bunny's living quarters, which contained several guest bedrooms as well as the Pooka's own, and Sandy was quick to direct Jack to the closest one.

Inside, a next lay on the ground, soft and inviting. Jack took to it like a duck to water, curling up miserably in the blankets, whining softly every time he bumped his broken leg. Little by little, he calmed down, the epinephrine gradually leaving his system.

Without ceremony, Sandy promptly knocked Jack out with dreamsand.

* * *

When he awoke, it was stiffly and reluctantly, body aching and mind whirling. He was still in a cave, he could see that, but not in his cave, not in his temporary sanctuary. Instead, he seemed to be somewhere in Bunnymund's home, in one of the guest bedrooms.

How did he get here?

He remembered fire, pain, hurt coming from every direction as he tried and failed to fight back against the surprise attack. He recalled heat, powers draining, agony, his staff slipping from his numb fingers…

Wait.

 _The staff!_

He jerked upright, which promptly ignited his wounds anew and caused him to give a weak cry of distress. Although his outburst was neither loud nor long, it triggered a flurry of sounds from outside the room, before four spirits hurried inside.

He recoiled from the concerned looks, unused to receiving so much attention. "Um, hi?"

He shied away when Tooth darted towards him, voice shrill with relief as she squeezed him in a hug. "Oh, Jack, you're alright!"

He blinked, blue eyes horribly confused. "...Of course I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

It was clear he didn't remember much. For a moment, Tooth debated telling him what had occurred, informing him about his moments of demented ferality, but when Sandy shook his head warningly, she changed her mind. She may never know exactly what had occurred in the cave, or why Jack acted the way he did, but none of those things were important. All that mattered was that Jack was now alive and well, and that he would recover.

Her purple gaze soft and motherly, the Tooth Fairy hugged Jack close. "No reason, Jack. We were just worried, is all."

He eyed her sceptically, before shrugging. "If you say so."

"I do. "

* * *

Two weeks later, and he was as good as new, free to wander across the globe as he normally did. At first, Bunny had attempted to hold him hostage at the Warren until he'd revealed who had hurt him, but when it was clear he wasn't going to explain beyond "it was a couple of summer sprites, that's it, can I leave now", he'd been reluctantly released. It also hadn't taken long for Tooth to find his lost staff, having wandered about until she found it in a crevice and brought it back.

Now, he was at liberty to fly wherever he pleased, and he intended to take full advantage of that. Flitting about like an excited tern, he dashed all around the globe, spreading snow and fun behind him.

It was over Romania, however, when he suddenly felt a shiver go up his spine, some sixth sense telling him that he was being followed. Without a moment's hesitation, he suddenly dived, crashing through the dense canopy of the forest below before landing gracefully on the ground. As he recovered form the landing, his sharp ears caught a muffled curse from behind him, followed by the sound of four small thuds.

He grinned. He'd been waiting for these four to show up. Muffled, but still audible, he heard frantic whispers coming from the undergrowth.

"Don't _shove_ , Flint-"

"Let go of my arm-"

"Look out, look out, I think he heard us-"

"Shut _up_ , you three-"

 _"Idiots._ Honestly, it's a wonder you're still alive-"

"Oh, shut the hell up, Shula-"

His eyes took on an evil glint. With a noticeable swagger to his gait, he strode over to where the voices were coming from, and shoved a branch that was blocking his view out of the way.

In front of him, frozen, stood four summer sprites, the very ones who had attacked him. Three male, one female, all staring at him with a startled expression in their wide, blood-red eyes, the only sound being the buzzing of their dragonfly-like wings. Still smiling dangerously, Jack leaned casually against his staff. "Looking for someone?"

Shula, the only female of the group, was the first to speak, annoyingly high-pitched voice quavering slightly in fear. "Um...no?"

"Oh, really? Than care to explain why you've been following me since Sibiu?"

She cringed. "No...reason?"

One of the males, Flint, stared at her. "What? Shula, weren't we just saying that we were going to kick him from here to next Tuesday-"

His complaint ended in a shrill yelp when Shula kicked him sharply in the shins. Jack raised one dark eyebrow, but decided not to comment. "Well, if that's the case, then I suppose you four wouldn't mind stopping?"

Shula nodded frantically. "Yes, Mister Frost, sir. Sorry to have bothered you, sir. Won't happen again, sir." She turned to her companions. "Let's go, guys."

Grumbling, two of them moved to follow her, but one of them, a raven-haired lad named Aedus, stubbornly stood his ground. "I ain't movin'."

"Come on, Aedus, it's not worth it-"

"I ain't movin', Shula. Not until Frosty here is nothin' more than a bloody pulp."

Jack's eyelid twitched at the nickname and at the threat, as he subconsciously braced himself for an upcoming fight. Sensing danger, Shula quickly grabbed her friend by the arm.

"Don't be stupid, Aedus. You don't stand a snowball's chance in hell against a winter spirit, especially not _the_ Spirit of Winter."

"We won last time."

"Last time was an ambush!" By now, Shula looked almost frantic. "It was a completely different situation! Now come on, let's go-"

"No."

 _"Aedus-"_

Without warning, finally fed up, Aedus turned and struck out at the winter spirit. The blow never reached its conclusion, a bright blue blast of winter magic cutting it off and freezing Aedus's left arm and wing, frost exploding outwards and chilling all in its path. With a screech, Aedus hastily backtracked, and the sprites froze.

There was a terrible, ghastly silence. A feral gleam now in his eyes, Jack spoke, nonchalantly twirling his staff between his fingers. "Anyone up for Round Two?"

Four pairs of terrified red eyes stared up at him, their owners petrified. Upper lip curling in the beginnings of a snarl, Jack took a step forward, a low growl making itself heard as his eyes danced with wicked glee.

By the time the four sprites finally stopped running, they were several miles away, the last traces of a barking, savage laughter still echoing menacingly in their ears.

* * *

Several weeks later, by the light of the moon, a fox sat at the banks of a frozen lake, staring up into the starlit sky.

It was clearly waiting for something, yet exactly what was still unclear. It had stayed there so long that the gently falling snow had accumulated in its rich red pelt, forming a thick blanket that covered it from head to toe. Its gaze did not stray from the sky, however, though it surely must have been half-frozen by now.

At last, its pointed ears perked up, and it stood, shaking the snow off as it did so. The creature that caught its attention, a white-haired teen, had finally appeared, soaring through the air before alighting on the icy surface of the lake. At last, the fox's long vigil was over.

It barked a welcome, and was not disappointed when the teen yipped a response. Though the child may be different in shape and form, though he may be fur-less and walk upon two legs instead of four, he was still the fox's brother in all but blood, and would understand its speech perfectly.

It whined, and jumped up, catching the sleeve of the child's hoodie playfully between its teeth. It was so long since the two had last hunted together, and the fox was growing impatient. The child, in turn, laughed the wild, barking laugh of the fox and of generations upon generations of its ancestors, and motioned to the fox to lead the way.

Quietly, in the pale moonlight, the two walked companionably side by side, both as wild as wild could be, and never to be tamed.

* * *

 **A/N: Feral!Jack is awesome. As well as Sandy.  
**

 **Sibiu is a city in Romania.**

 **Epinephrine is just another word for adrenaline.**

 **It actually takes anything from a few days to a few weeks (depending on the severity of the injury) before a bone will begin to heal, so theoretically, you _could_ wait a few days before going to the doctor to get it set. Naturally, I don't recommend this course of action in the slightest: if you DO end up with a broken bone, go to the doctor as soon as humanely possible, and don't take medical advice from people's fanfictions.**

 **Also, I'm not misspelling "spirits" (don't you know me better than that?). "Sprite" is another word for an entity such as a pixie, fairy, or elf.**

 **Questions? PM me.**

 **Techie out.**


	11. Sol 3

**A/N:**

 **Yes, yes, this _is_ Sol 3. I _did_ keep my promise. What, don't you trust me?  
**

 **To all the people who asked whether Feral!Jack will show up again: while there won't be an official sequel to "Ferality" as such, the feral side of Jack _will_ show up a few more times in future chapters. **

**Also, I'm happy to say that I finally stumbled across a theme song for the Sol arch! It's "Friction" by Imagine Dragons. While it is a bit of a...unique song, I feel it fits the Sol arch well, and I actually rather like the song itself. It is unique, though, as I've said before, so it might not be your 'type' of music, but I guess don't knock it 'till you've tried it?**

 **Warning: Physical abuse.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG, or Imagine Dragon's "Friction".**

* * *

 _"_ _Get down with the victim  
We both know you need them  
You're stuck in the middle  
Of all irrelevance  
And your heart is beating  
'Cause you know that you gotta  
Get out of the middle  
And rise to the top now_

 _When you've made it  
Won't ya tell me what to do  
'Cause I'm playin' it all wrong  
When you made it, when you made it  
Won't ya tell me what to do  
'Cause I'm playin' it all wrong_

 _You can't fight the friction  
So ease it off  
Can't take the pressure  
So ease it off  
Don't tell me to be strong  
Ease it off  
You can't fight the friction  
So ease it off"-_"Friction" by Imagine Dragons

* * *

"Hey Tooth. Do you have a moment? I kinda need to talk to you about something..."

Despite the nonchalant tone that Jack used, Tooth noted a desperate urgency underlying his voice. Taking only a moment to let one of her more experienced fairies take over for a little while, she turned away from her job to speak to Jack. "Yes?"

If she'd been concerned before, she was far more so now. Although there was nothing she could pin down with any precision, it was obvious that Jack was anxious and stressed, hood shrouding his face in thin, spidery shadows as his fearful gaze darted everywhere, looking for danger. Her worry spiked when she noticed the way he carried himself, as if there were injuries he was trying to account for, and when he remained silent, she darted towards him. "Jack? Are you alright? Is something wrong?"

He seemed to snap out of his little daze, a faint flash of fear traveling across his pale face before his blue eyes turned steely with determination. He edged closer towards her, still holding himself awkwardly, and looked around before lowered his voice to a nervous half-whisper. "There's a...problem. Something I need to warn you about."

That sounded...ominous. A small pool of dread began to build in her chest. "What is it?"

He clearly wasn't entirely sure how to word his statement, a few incoherent stutters leaving him before he fell into silence, trying to find the words he needed. It took a few moments for him to gather himself, but when he was able to speak, his words chilled Tooth to the bone. "There's...someone here you shouldn't trust. Someone dangerous. At least, I think he is."

"Who?"

His mouth snapped shut with a dull clack, and he appeared to be struggling to answer the question. Hastily, Tooth changed the topic. "I understand if you can't tell me, Jack. But at least tell me what makes you think that he is 'dangerous'."

He looked down and away. "...I...have some evidence."

"...Can you show it to me?"

There were a few moments where nothing happened, Tooth waiting as Jack fought to find the courage to give the last bits of information that would reveal all. In the end, he decided that it would be far easier and more effective for him to use actions instead of words, and without a sound, he took a deep breath before pushing up his right sleeve to reveal his injured wrist.

Tooth's heart stopped in her chest as she stared at the blackened and shredded flesh, still encrusted as it was with streaks of dry blood. Her stomach twisted when he spoke again, confirming her worst fears. "There's...more where that one came from."

Biting her lip, she reached out for his wrist, gently cradling it between her fingers as she looked at the wounds from all sides. Suddenly, she spoke, voice stiff with barely stifled rage, the fiery anger of a queen burning in her eyes. "Who did this to you?"

His voice shook. "I can't-"

"No, Jack, you can and you will. Now tell me, who did this to you?"

Her fury mounted when he still hesitated fearfully. The Jack _she_ knew would never have been too terrified to tell the truth. Reluctant yes, and proud certainly, but _terrified_ never. Whoever had done this to him had damaged him more than just physically, and she would gladly travel to all four corners of the world in order to find the bastard who had _dared_ to do this to her Jack.

"Jack," she insisted, when he continued to stall, "Tell me."

His resolve crumbled suddenly, and he tried to pull away, to no avail. "...Nevermind. It's not important-"

"It _is_ important!"

"No, it isn't! Just forget about it, it's no big deal-"

"It is a big deal, Jack, stop trying to deny it! I know it's hard," she added quickly, when he looked like he was about to refuse again, "but we can, and want to, help you, and we can only do that if you tell us what's wrong."

He looked at her apprehensively. "What if you don't believe me?"

"There's no chance of that happening. I know you would never lie about something like this."

He bit his lip, considering. There were a few minutes of tense silence, during which Tooth waited expectantly for his next words.

What she heard, though, was not what she'd been expecting to hear.

"...It was Ra. Ra did this."

* * *

She should have expected this. No one fitted the description, the burns, like Ra did. She should have expected this and accounted for this possibility, yet she was still floored by the glaringly obvious.

Now that the truth had come to light, however, she needed to fix this mess somehow. Had it been a simple summer spirit, a lower-class being, she would already be out the window and in search of blood, but Ra was a god, and those who defied gods, even weakened ones, would suffer consequences. Tooth may have been part-deity, for her mother had been a Sister of Flight, but Ra was a god, and not just any god, but the king of the Egyptian gods. She had only the four other Guardians to call to her aid, while Ra had dozens of powerful deities on his side. To fight him, to rebel against him, would be sheer _madness._

As much as it tore at her heartstrings to do so, she couldn't help Jack. Not without harming him, and the other Guardians, more. If she wanted to keep him safe, if she wanted to get him out of this situation with as little damage as possible, she had to not only refuse to help him, but deter him from trying to help himself.

He was still looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to believe him. She did believe him, truly, but she had a job to do, and to accomplish it, she had to lie. _I must be cruel to be kind,_ she told herself firmly, even as her very conscience revolted, even as her motherly instincts demanded that she rip into shreds the very man who had harmed him.

Putting on her best doubtful face, and ignoring the thoughts telling her to do otherwise, she spoke in a disbelieving tone. "Are you sure?"

He stared at her as if he'd just been slapped. "Yes."

 _No don't how could you you know he's right you know it why don't you help him?_ "Really? I doubt Ra would do something like this. Are you certain you're not mistaken?"

He gawked at her in utter betrayal and shock. "Am I certain—of course I'm certain! I was _there_ , I saw him-"

 _Evil hurtful don't deserve to live coward liar can't you see he's hurt_ " Jack, you're obviously confused. I understand that you're stressed out and agitated, we all are, so I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you accuse our guest of something which he isn't capable of doing. Now, why don't you go get some rest, and we'll talk about that burn of yours later, hm?"

He looked like a puppy that had just been kicked, spat upon, and set on fire, all for no clear reason. It was a few seconds before he spoke, voice suddenly rough and bitter. "You think I'm crazy, don't you? You think I'm mad? Lost a few marbles? Got touched in the head?"

 _No you don't he's clearly not mad tell him you believe him he needs your help_ "I think you're overly paranoid and eager to accuse others, as well as difficult to reason with. Probably because you haven't been sleeping well, which is why I suggest you go get some sleep."

"...I'm not insane, you know."

"I never said you were, Jack. Now go sleep."

"Tooth-"

"Jack, I have work to do. Go take a nap, we'll discuss this later."

As a finishing touch, she glared at him, and he recoiled slightly before nodding and swiftly flying away.

As she numbly turned back to her job, guilt churning in her chest, she directed a mental prayer at whoever may be listening, hoping fervently that she was doing the right thing.

* * *

"I saw what you tried to do, back there."

Once again, he was cornered like a frightened rat, unable to run away as Ra held him against the wall. The sun god's handsome face was twisted in savage wrath, his grip verging on the agonizingly tight. There was no way out except to bear it, for Ra was hell-bent on teaching him a lesson, and he had no way of escape.

Abruptly, he was slammed into the wall, and he looked up to the sight of a pair of hazel-amber eyes glaring him down.

"I told you, " the sun god said, grinding his teeth in anger, " _I told you not to tell!"_

He cried out for what seemed to be the hundredth time, as burns were once again painted and traced over his skin, like a shining spider's web of scars. Blood rose to the surface, along with yelps of pain and hopeless sorrow, and no matter how he tried to squirm away, the agony never ended and the tears never stopped.

The familiar cold chill, that he thought had left him when he'd joined the Guardians, now wrapped itself around his heart anew. He was alone again. Just like before, just like he'd always be. He'd been a fool to hope otherwise, an idiot to dream he'd ever have someone who cared about him.

He was Jack Frost, a winter spirit, a nuisance, and a troublemaker.

No one ever, _ever_ cared about Jack Frost.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Aha.**

 **Ahaha.**

 **Ahahaha.**

 **AhahahahahahahahahAHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAAHHA-::goes to bed::  
**

 **(Got questions? PM me)**

 **(Techie out.)**


	12. Sol 4

**A/N: Happy Halloween!  
**

 **Anyway...So, just so you know, this chapter fought me (and by 'fought me', I mean 'beat me up with a baseball bat'), so if it sucks, I'm sorry.**

 **Also, I'm going to do a quick response to a couple of guest reviewers, because some of them asked some interesting questions last chapter and I can't PM them to answer and I think it's only fair I answer them here. So yeah.**

 **Response to guest reviewer _Guest:_**

 _ **Q. So just out of curiosity, how exactly do you plan on ending this? Is it gonna have a happy ending/ are these chapters gonna start getting lighter? Or is Jack just gonna break or is this gonna be a bunch of stories about Jack's life sucking?**_

 **A. Um...::looks guiltily at the summary, the genres, the title, and what I've written so far:: It...looks like it's going to be a series about Jack's life sucking, more or less, I suppose. I mean, once the Big Four realize what Jack's statement of "I'm fine" actually means, these stories might get a little lighter, but I'm not sure.  
**

 **Q.** _ **Like idk maybe they see feral Jack and he breaks and screams at them and runs away until they track him down and work on making things right or something.**_

 **A. I...probably won't write that. I'm not sure. But it seems a little OOC for Jack to do that, and I don't really do OOC.**

 **Q. _T_** _ **hen afterwards there should 100% be a chapter where Jack has to take off his hoody and all they see is a canvas of scars.**_

 **A.** **::sudden evil grin::** **Ooooh, I have plans for a chapter like that, don't you worry...hehehe ::snickers::** _ **  
**_

 **Response to guest reviewer EriTheBear**

 **Q.** ** _I'm curious as a demi-god, would [Tooth] know other Gods who would help? I know Bunny may know Ostara (Wiccan Goddess of Fertility/Easter), Sandy would know both Triton and Poseidon (Greek and Roman Gods of the Sea since he has been friends with the mermaids since he landed on earth.), North may know The Goddess of Wisdom and several muse Deities._ **

**A. Hmm, I'm not really sure. She might know** ** **Mnemosyne (personification of memory and remembrance in greek mythology), but I'm not sure about others, I'll have to look deeper into that. But w** hile the Guardians may indeed know some gods, I doubt they're very good friends with them. The Big Four are always perpetually busy and don't seem like the type to really socialize with outside spirits (heck, from what Pitch said ["The Big Four, all in one place. I'm a little star-struck."], it doesn't sound like they spend much time with _each other_ ). So while they may be acquaintances with other gods, I doubt they would have bothered to really forge a friendship/alliance with them.  
**

 **Q.** ** _Not all Gods/Goddesses can be as cruel to Jack as Ra. Despite his race issue no doubt the older Deities know Jack and his kind maintain balance. There has to be a group outside trying to help winter spirits in a civil rights kinda way._**

 **A. Unfortunately, there is no such "civil rights group". While some spirits do realize that winter spirits aren't all bad, these spirits aren't really banded together in any way. In the spirit world, there's a prevailing theme of "every man/woman/child/being for themselves" and no one really would form a group.  
**

 **Q.** _ **He is still a child. Even if he is a teen, if they can't help, they just failed as Guardians. Teens are stuck between still being children but always treated as adults because it is a transition. Jack is immortalized this way. It won't ever change.**_

 **A. True, but I'd like to mention that while he may be a child at heart, I believe that he's far from being naive. I imagine he's seen a lot of both good and bad things over the years, and by now he's kind of jaded and cynical, a sort of 'grown-up child', if you will (I know I haven't done a very good job of bringing out the child-like part of him, however, and I will try to do better in the future). As for the Guardians having failed him...well, I agree completely.  
**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

 _"Think it through, you can't undo,_  
 _Whenever I see black and blue, I feel the past, I share the bruise._  
 _With everyone who's come and gone_  
 _My head is clear, my voice is strong, now I'm right here to right the wrong._

 _We don't have to take this, back against the wall!_  
 _We don't have to take this, we can end it all!_

 _All you'll ever be is a fading memory of a bully,_  
 _Make another joke while they hang another rope, so lonely._  
 _Push them to the dirt till the words don't hurt, can you hear me?_  
 _No one's gonna cry on the very day you die, you're a bully!"_ -"Bully" by Shinedown

* * *

Jack would later be ashamed to admit that the next few days were spent in a sort of dazed self-pity. Tooth's sudden betrayal had shocked him to the point where his determination and reason suddenly went missing in action, leaving behind a hollow shell of depression and despair. He no longer saw a way out, for if Tooth hadn't believed him, who would?

On top of that, his failed attempt had only made his situation worse. Ra was more unbalanced than ever, and Jack was certain that the only thing keeping the sun god from attacking the other Guardians was the fact that Ra still needed their help. As it was, though, the beatings grew worse and more frequent, to the point where the winter spirit was having a hard time hiding the telltale marks and bruises.

Not that he needed to, of course. The Guardians clearly didn't give a damn about him, and there was no point to hiding the burns, except to humor his sense of pride. Pride which he had no right to have.

He spent more and more of his time away from the other Guardians, half-saddened and half- disgusted at their betrayal. He was still required to spend most of his time at the Palace, of course, for the issue of how to help Ra was still present, but he refused to spend more time than was absolutely necessary with the other Guardians, instead sequestering himself inside his guest room.

He was in there now, lying limply on the bed, dull blue eyes staring numbly at the ceiling as he once again tried to find a way out of this mess.

He would clearly receive no aid from the Guardians, and yet where else could he get help? He had friends, it was true, but a few trickster spirits were not the best support when dealing with a mad god. No, when dealing with a god, only another god would suffice, and Jack predictably did not know many gods who could help.

Besides, few gods would want to get mixed up in such a matter. The Egyptian gods were an old and powerful lot, held in high regard in the spirit world, and few dared to go up against them. It would be nearly impossible to bring an Egyptian god to justice, let alone the king of the gods-

Justice.

He jackknifed into a sitting position, eyes wide in sudden understanding, and mentally smacked himself for not thinking of it sooner. Why, even Ra himself was not invulnerable to the hand of Justice, and in this case, she would surely be on Jack's side.

The first grin he'd worn in over a week suddenly appeared on his face, giving him a mildly psychotic appearance. Quickly, nearly tripping over himself in his haste, he bounded off the bed and rushed to the wall, grabbing his staff along the way. With a tap of one finger against the colorful tiles, he created a small frost picture of a bird, and with another effort he drew the picture away from the wall, creating a fragile creature that appeared to be made of frost itself. Carefully, he covered it in a thin layer of ice, which glowed a light blue in the sunlight, and, gingerly carrying it, he walked over to the open window before tossing it outside, certain that it knew what to do.

He watched it for a few minutes, until it flew out of sight, before turning back, grin still plastered maniacally on his face.

* * *

In the dense undergrowth of a forest in India, two Egyptian goddesses and one god were waiting.

The god looked impatient, brown eyes filled with vague irritation. The two goddesses, on the other hand, seemed tranquil, one muttering under her breath as she flipped through a folder filled with sheets of papyrus, the other idly stroking the head of a nearby bird as she stared up into the sky, dark blue eyes filled with concern.

At last, the god snapped, rising to his feet with an impatient huff, his abrupt movement startling the bird, which flapped away with a hoarse croak. "I swear, if this is _another_ prank that frosted brat is pulling…"

The second goddess looked away from the sky and glared at him, expression stern. "Geb, I would think you knew better than that. Jack may have a mischievous disposition, but he would never make us worry like this for nothing. The message he sent clearly indicated that this is a very serious matter."

The god, Geb, scoffed. "You give him too much credit, Nut. Remember that time with the snow leopards?"

Nut frowned. "I do not deny that he is a trickster at heart, Geb, but that incident occurred under entirely different circumstances. Give him the benefit of the doubt."

Geb gave a disbelieving snort that was filled with derision. "You are too soft on the child, Nut. Why, even Ma'at here would admit that a trick like this is not beyond Jack Frost."

The folder-wielding goddess looked up, then, sea-green eyes unnervingly cold and distant. "Do not put words into my mouth, Geb, lest you be forced to swallow them. In the interests of justice and fairness, I must admit that I agree with Nut: Frost would not gather us all here and keep us waiting without good reason. He respects the value of our time far too much."

Geb rolled his eyes in faux-exasperation. "Oh, I see how it goes. Two women ganging up on me, how quaint."

Ma'at raised her silver eyebrows, the feathers of her wings ruffling at the challenge. "In the interests of justice and fairness, I protest that remark."

"Seems the scales are skewed then, Ma'at, or is it only I who thinks you may be biased?"

"The scales never lie, Geb."

"Not according to you, they don't."

As the discussion soon spiraled into a heated argument between the two, Nut rubbed her temples irritably, feeling a pounding headache coming on. Honestly, if she had a single grain of sand for every time those two had fought over the millennia, she'd have enough to sink a whole fleet of barges by now.

At last, salvation appeared in the form of a figure soaring through the sky towards them. Half-maniacally, Nut rose and pointed furiously at the approaching figure. "There he is!"

Jack Frost landed smoothly in front of them just as Ma'at and Geb ceased their fight, and, relieved, Nut rushed towards the winter spirit and enveloped him in a motherly hug. "Jack! I was worried about you!"

He stiffened slightly in her embrace, as he so often did, but soon relaxed, gingerly returning the hug. "Hello, Nut. Long time no see, isn't it?"

Despite his casual tone, Nut could sense that something was wrong, for he was half-hunched over, his hood was covering his face, and he winced when she touched him. She drew back, star-encrusted brow furrowed, voice suddenly sharp and business-like. "What happened? Where are you hurt?"

Geb looked up, then, tense and alert, brown eyes examining Jack for injuries. Ma'at also appeared troubled, putting down her folder as she rose from her seat on the ground, a sliver of humanity appearing in her emotionless teal eyes.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "That's...actually why I called you. I need your help with something."

Geb spoke next, determined. "With what? Tell us and we'll do it."

He hesitated, briefly, but the three gazes encouraged him to continue. Sighing, he allowed his hand to drop to his side. "...I need to press charges against Ra."

* * *

 **A/N: Yeah...it sucks. Ah, well, I tried. (Also, yes, Jack is friends with Nut and Geb. And about the snow leopard incident...no. It was glorious indeed, but shall not be described.)  
**

 **For those of you who aren't Egyptian mythology nerds: Nut is the goddess of the sky. Geb is the god of the earth. Ma'at is the goddess of justice, truth, morality, law, balance, harmony, and order.  
**

 **Also, as a side note, Nut is Geb's wife (and also sister, but I don't want to get into that too deeply for...obvious reasons). Ma'at is Ra's daughter (and has wings).**

 **Questions? PM me.**

 **Techie out.**


	13. Broken Lyres

**A/N: Hey, folks.**

 **...So. Um. Long time no update, I know. Sorry about that, life happened and I felt very demotivated for a little while...**

 **Anyway, sorry, this is not Sol 5. But hopefully you'll be fine with it...?  
**

 **Warnings: Somewhat graphic depictions of injuries, implied character death.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

 _"_ _I leant upon a coppice gate_

 _When Frost was spectre-grey,_

 _And Winter's dregs made desolate_

 _The weakening eye of day._

 _The tangled bine-stems scored the sky_

 _Like strings of broken lyres,_

 _And all mankind that haunted nigh_

 _Had sought their household fires." –_ "The Darkling Thrush" by Thomas Hardy

* * *

They say that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

One thing that Jack Frost knew, however, was that it had never happened to him, not even as a human. When he had drowned, frozen and alone in the frostbitten lake, there was no sudden revelation, no resurfacing of old memories. There had only been cold and darkness and fear, and a desperate struggle for life which he had eventually lost.

As a spirit, too, he had several close scrapes, sometimes only remaining alive through sheer luck, yet he never saw his life flashing before him. Each and every time, there was only the pulse of adrenaline and terror as he fought to keep his life.

Like now.

He was dying, his already-chilled blood freezing and crystallizing slowly in his veins, the cold inching towards his slow-beating heart. He'd never felt cold before, his powers as a winter spirit preventing that, but now? Now he was _freezing._

 _He was dying, and his life wasn't flashing before his eyes._

A shuddering breath slipped haltingly past his lips, and he noticed with a sort of dazed surprise that he was exhaling small ice crystals. He'd seen something similar happen to humans when in colder weather, the warm breath condensing in a fine mist in front of their faces, but he honestly didn't see how that could be happening to him. Wasn't his breath normally _cold_?

A sharp stab of bone-chilling pain suddenly hit his chest with the force of a small sledgehammer, and he doubled over, nearly shrieking in pain, bloodstained hands clamped tightly over the wound that almost led to his heart. With another violent shiver, he noticed that his hands were growing numb, and with a dawning horror he saw the normally-pale tips of his slender fingers turn a dark shade of ash-gray.

 _Like frostbite,_ he realized dully, and the thought abruptly caused his slowing heartbeat to spike. Whatever had happened to him, it definitely had not been good.

...What had happened to him, anyway? He couldn't remember anymore. Something to do with...the Guardians? Maybe?

His fractured train of thought finally crumbled when another jarring pang of frozen agony seemed almost to rip his heart in two, and he screamed, curled tightly into a ball as he could only wait for the pain to pass. Through his almost-shut eyelids, he noticed a thin layer of ice, ice that was definitely _not_ his own, form over his chest, gently inching towards his heart.

 _Damn._

He needed to do something, or else he would freeze where he sat. Swearing thinly under his breath, he clawed at the deadly covering of ice, ripping his fingers to bloody shreds as he pried off piece after glass-sharp piece. It worked, for a little while, his desperate scrabbling forcing the ice to make a retreat, but just as soon as he got rid of it it reformed, once again making its fatal advance.

 _Damn. Damn damn damn. Damn it to the moon and back!_

Finally giving up with an anxious snarl, he instead reached for the staff at his side, picking it up with difficulty as his fingers refused to cooperate. Shivering and trembling, he forced himself to his feet, legs shaking underneath him as black spots danced merrily across his vision.

At his mental call, the wind whooshed in among the sparse scattering of snow-covered pine trees, curling around him protectively, ready to indulge his every whim. He tried his best to think through the fog that hindered his brain, suddenly forgetting where exactly he'd wanted to go.

When at last he'd sorted things out in his head ( _get somewhere warm, and **quickly**_ ), he felt the wind coil closer around him, in preparation for flight. He really didn't want to fly right now, for he felt lightheaded and dizzy, but it seemed to be about as optional as it would be pleasant-

 _"_ _Jack!"_

Though the steadily-thickening haze that enshrouded his thoughts, his brain registered a shout from behind, followed by the thud of a hand clasping his shoulder. Instinctively, he shied away from the touch, nearly falling over as he attempted to stagger away from possible danger.

"Oh no, ya don't!"

The alien grip grabbed him by both of his shoulders, paying no attention to his startled yelp as it whirled him around to face his potential enemy. His vision suddenly took a turn for the worse, blacking out for a brief moment before gradually lightening. The sudden movement had disoriented him, making his head spin and his heart race, and it was a little while before he returned to his senses enough to make out what the other person was saying.

"-ya alright? Jack, answer me!"

Was that.. _.Bunny?_

What was _Bunny_ doing here?

He attempted to voice the question, words slurring and tumbling together semi-incoherently. "B-Bunny? What...what're you doing here?"

His fellow Guardian's bright green eyes were the only things he could make out with perfect clarity, the rest of the world around him blending and blurring into a mess of gray and white. Distantly, he realized that he could no longer feel Bunny grabbing his arms.

He wondered, half-deliriously, if this was how it felt like to die from cold.

"Yer not gonna die."

He laughed, then, the ice shards inside his lungs ripping and tearing at his insides as his maniacal giggles forced them upwards. Pain stabbed again through his chest and shoulders, but he continued to laugh, doubled over, only Bunny's tight hold on him preventing him from collapsing entirely. Oh, Bunny may hope all he wanted to, but hope did not bring about miracles, and only a miracle could save poor, frozen, dying Jack Frost.

Bunny, on his part, became almost wrathful. "Will ya stop it, ya showpony?! How the hell can ya laugh at a time like this?"

He didn't have the chance to explain, hysterical uncontrollable laughter mixing with cries of pain as the agony in his chest built up to almost unbearable levels. He felt his breath constrict, and through the cackles he noticed the layer of ice on his chest thicken and widen, encircling his ribcage before beginning to slowly crush him.

Bunny noticed it as well, curse words making their appearance as he lowered Jack not-so-gently to the ground before crouching beside him and pulling at the ice, using his claws for leverage as he tried to peel the choking layer away. The ice cracked and splintered easily, falling away in small shards, but more grew back at the same rate as it was removed.

When dark red blood finally began to stain gray fur, Jack attempted to intervene, small giggles still bursting forth randomly. "Bunny...st-stop it. It's no use-"

"If it keeps ya from dyin', I'm doin' it." Bunny retorted stubbornly.

Jack grew more alarmed when Bunny accidentally carved a deep gash in the center of his palm, blood bubbling forth freely from the wound. "Bunny, please stop, you're h-hurting yourself-"

"No!"

Alarm turned to panic as Bunny ripped savagely at the ice, shredding his paws into a bloody mess. Jack attempted to pull away, desperate to stop Bunny from harming himself further. "Bunny, stop it! I'm fine! Stop!"

"Yer not fine, yer dyin-"

"Then let me die already and stop injuring yourself for no reason!"

Bunny's green eyes narrowed, and Jack noticed with growing dread that even the bright green was no longer easy to make out, his own vision grayed out and blurry. Bunny's voice rumbled angrily. "I'm not letting ya die, Jack."

"...Well, l-looks like you d-don't have much of a choice, do y-you?"

"Don't say that-"

"It's true, t-though. I'm g-going to die. So you m-might as well give up."

Something much like sorrow and anger flashed across Bunny's face. "Jack...no. Listen. North's on his way. If I can keep ya alive till then-"

"-Which you can't-"

"-Shut up. If I can keep ya alive till then, North can help ya, he can reverse the spell. Then, after yer healed, we can go after Old Man Winter and show him just whom he's dealin' with."

It sounded almost possible...but no. By the time North arrived, by the time Jack was taken to the pole, by the time spells had been found and cast, he'd be long dead. Old Man Winter (if he was indeed the one who had done this, Jack's memory was still fairly spotty) had done his work well.

Bunny, too, clearly realized this, his ears lowering shortly after he made his statement, a distraught expression on his face. Jack softened his voice, now a mere whisper, as he attempted once more to knock sense into the rabbit's head. "Bunny. _I'm going to die._ "

The Guardian of Hope looked...lost, for lack of a better word, much like a puppy left in the streets. He hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do, before suddenly opening his arms and enveloping Jack in a hug.

The winter spirit stiffened as a cascade of warmth was registered by his numbed nerves. Far from what was needed to heal him, the warmth's sole purpose was to comfort him in his last moments, and surprisingly enough, it worked. Jack Frost, the cold-hearted winter spirit without a home or family to call his own, the spirit who had survived for three centuries in the harshness of loneliness and sorrow, felt, for the first time in three centuries, completely at peace with the world.

He felt his eyes shut despite himself, felt rigidity creeping into his muscles, felt the cold finally claim his heart...and he was _content._

Though the haze, he thought he heard the last words he would ever hear, Bunny's voice coming as if from far away, in a promise of "I won't let ya die alone."

 _I know you won't,_ he wanted to reply. _I know you won't._

Without warning, it happened. Memories sprung to mind, leaping to the surface from where they had long lain buried. Once again, he was with his sister, once again, he drowned, once again, he was alone, and once again, he found his purpose and his life, his meaning and his function.

In that moment, as he froze to death in the middle of the Yukon, Jack Frost's life flashed before his eyes for the first and final time.

* * *

 **A/N: ...So. Looks like I just killed Jack. Whoopsies.**

 **Also, I know it's sucky writing, but I was kinda forcing myself to write this so it came out a little wonky...**

 **Anyway, about the exhaling ice crystals thing: The air naturally contains moisture. Now, when Jack breathed in, the spell had made him so cold inside that the minuscule water droplets in the air froze into ice inside his lungs. Kinda like the opposite of what happens when your breath condenses in cold weather.**

 **Questions? PM me.**

 **Techie out.**


	14. Sol 5

**A/N: ...So. I've been gone for nearly two weeks. Oy vey. Sorry about that.**

 **Anyway, just so you know, this chapter was a jerk to write. Like, seriously, it hated me. So if it sucks, which it likely does, I am sorry.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG**

* * *

 _"_ _It's time for me to take it  
I'm the boss right now  
Not gonna fake it  
Not when you go down  
'Cause this is my game  
And you better come to play_

 _I used to hold my freak back_  
 _Now I'm letting go_  
 _I make my own choice_  
 _Yeah I run this show_  
 _So leave the lights on_  
 _No, you can't make me behave_

 _So you say I'm complicated_  
 _That I must be outta my mind_  
 _But you've had me underrated_  
 _(Rated, rated)_

 _What's wrong with being, what's wrong with being_  
 _What's wrong with being confident?_  
 _What's wrong with being, what's wrong with being_

 _ _ **What's wrong with being confident?"** -__"Confident" by Demi Lovato

* * *

Geb was first to react, the hot-headed god breaking the silence like a hammer to a landmine as he ordered Jack to explain, voice deep and wrathful. This spurred on Nut as well, who snapped out of her shocked state to demand that Jack tell her what exactly had happened, and _quickly_. Ma'at alone remained silent, one silver eyebrow raised in a silent question as she waited for Jack to elaborate.

It took several minutes before Jack could adequately calm his overprotective friends enough to tell his story from beginning to end, the truthfulness of his statements backed by the marks of injuries that still marred his skin. As his tale unfolded,Geb gradually looked more and more like he was itching to murder someone, while Nut began to mutter curses in her native tongue, blood-lust shining in her dark blue eyes. Ma'at was the only one who remained cool and collected, even as a chilled-steel glint came into her cyan eyes, her silver wings ruffling in anger as the only outward display of her indignation.

When he'd finally finished, Ma'at was first to speak, question direct and to the point. "And so I take it you wish to press charges for abuse, assault, and battery?"

He nodded in affirmation. "Yes."

"I see," the goddess of justice began flipping through her folder. "Of course, you realize that this poses some...complications, at least as far as spirit politics is concerned. Ra holds a very high position of authority, Frost, and to press such serious charges against him is asking for a fight."

The winter spirit nodded tersely as he sat down cross-legged on the ground. "I am aware of this, yes."

Ma'at frowned slightly at the tinge of bitterness in the younger spirit's tone, but otherwise disregarded it. "Due to this difficulty, I would recommend an official Council hearing, as the results of such a hearing will be taken more seriously than those from a private-"

"One moment."

Ma'at frowned slightly at Geb. "Yes?"

The god of the Earth looked dubious. "Do you honestly think it's a good idea for Frosty here to _sue_ Ra?"

"If I didn't, would I suggest it?"

"But think of the consequences! The other gods _adore_ Ra. If they find out Frost is trying to press charges against him, they'll go ballistic! They might even try to kill him!"

"Rest assured, Geb, I have taken such considerations into will not come to harm if I can prevent it."

"And if you can't?"

"You insult me, Geb...Not that that is to be unexpected, of course."

"...Meaning?"

"Meaning that those with large egos and small capabilities often have the urge to pick fights with other, more competent people."

"Why, you little-"

In an effort to dissolve the budding argument, Nut interrupted with a question of her own. "Returning to the point...Even assuming that you can keep him from being killed until the trial, what prevents him from being targeted afterwards?"

"After Ra has been convicted of abuse, assault, and battery, you mean? I doubt Ra's friends would stick around with him then. Such crimes are taken very seriously indeed, Nut."

"...Assuming he _is_ convicted, that is."

Geb's muttered words were barely audible, yet enough to put Jack immediately on the defensive, Tooth's words of a few hours prior foremost in his mind. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"What? No! No, I didn't mean that at all, Jack. But such a story would not be easily believed-"

"Which is of no importance, Geb. The Feather of Truth gives the full, unequivocal truth, regardless of outside opinions or bias."

"I am aware of this, Ma'at, but the Feather is magical, and magic can be corrupted."

"As insane as Ra may possibly be, I doubt even he would attempt to tamper with it. Such a crime is punishable by death, Geb."

"Ah, but whose death? Ra's or Frost's?"

An uneasy silence descended over the clearing, before Ma'at's feathers ruffled angrily. "Such questions are pointless, Geb. No one will tamper with the Feather, you may rest easy on this matter."

The chilly tone to her words conveyed clearly that she considered the discussion to be over. With a huff, Geb turned away, clearly still skeptical of Ma'at's words, while the goddess resumed searching through her folder, rolling her eyes all the while.

Eventually, with a minute flourish, the goddess of justice drew out a piece of papyrus and shoved it into Jack's hands, before also drawing a reed pen and an inkwell from...Jack wasn't entirely sure where. She didn't seem to have a satchel on her person…

He dismissed this as something of low importance, instead picking up the papyrus by one corner and holding it in front of his face, squinting in a vague attempt to decipher the Egyptian hieroglyphs scrawled upon it. "And this is…?"

Ma'at handed the pen and the inkwell to him, speaking as she did so. "A form, confirming that you wish to prosecute Ra in a formal hearing. Sign your name on the dotted line, please."

He did so, dipping the pen in the ink before scribbling his name on the form, a half-messy, half-elegant script serving as his signature. As soon as he was finished, Ma'at snatched the papyrus from him and tucked it back in her folder. "Excellent. Your hearing is scheduled for tomorrow at twelve noon, Eastern European Time. Try to be on time for once, Frost."

He nodded, even as he began to feel uneasy. Somehow, something told him things were going to go very wrong…

He shrugged it off, thanked Nut, Geb, and Ma'at for their time, and took off towards Asia.

He didn't notice when a golden-brown hawk took off from the underbrush shortly after he did, and began to follow him all the way back to the Tooth Palace.

* * *

 _"_ _What?!"_

The hawk squawked indignantly as the desk it was perched upon suddenly burst into yellow-gold flames. Huffing, the bird of prey left its flaming roost, instead opting to land on the back of a chair, from where it began to glare at Ra accusingly.

Its owner began pacing frantically around the room, leaving behind himself charred stains on the tiled floor. The normally arrogant and egoistic god now seemed concerned and almost frightened, his terrified anger growing with every step.

" _...How?!_ Winter spirits are supposed to be _weak_! Pathetic! How could he even _think_ of doing something like this?"

The hawk shrugged.

"...Anyway, I suppose it's unimportant now...I need suggestions, Horakhty! What should I do now?"

The hawk shrugged again.

Ra scoffed. "Useless feather-duster..."

Frowning, the sun god sat down on the edge of the bed, fingers clutching tightly at his hair as he considered his options. He had no choice but to participate in the hearing, for he knew that an hour before the trial, armed guards would bring him by force to the courtroom, using every means possible to make sure he wouldn't escape. He knew, too, that there was no chance he'd be acquitted, for the Feather of Truth always gave the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth-

The Feather.

The Feather was magic. And magic...could _always_ be corrupted.

He stood up, a semi-insane grin appearing on his face. Smirking, the sun god snatched the hawk from its perch on the chair and placed it on his left shoulder. "Time to make a visit, Horakhty, I have a plan!"

The hawk pointed at the still-burning desk with one wing, expression deadpanned.

"...We'll take care of the desk when I get back, Horakhty."

Without a sound, the god vanished alongside his exasperated bird.

* * *

He grinned to himself, a mad gleam in his eyes. He would always be astonished at how little security Ma'at always imposed on the building which contained the Feather, apparently depending on some sort of _honor system_ to protect the object.

Ha. Honor system. Ra _spat_ on honor systems.

He took a moment to admire the feather. It looked as if it had been spun from the thinnest threads of polished silver, so that it shimmered like a candle in the light. He knew for a fact that it was one of Ma'at's own feathers, infused with the sense of truth and justice that flowed through the deity's veins.

It was indeed a beautiful and bewitching sight.

Smirking, the god reached out for the scintillating Feather of Truth.

* * *

 **A/N: Argh. I hate this chapter. Not only is it filled mostly with OCs, but it's rushed. Argh.**

 **Although...I have to laugh a little at Horakhty. Poor little bird is like "you _need_ to stop setting things on fire, man".**

 **(OMG. Now I'm reminded of an animated series...)**

 **Ra: And then I set _him_ on fire.**

 **Horakhty: Raaaaaaa! That _kills_ people!**

 **(Questions? PM me.)**

 **(Techie out)**


	15. Restraint 1

**A/N: I almost feel guilty for posting this instead of Sol 6, because judging by the reviews, it seems like a lot of you are hanging on the edge of your seats, waiting to see if Ra fails. So yeah, I kinda feel guilty for posting this. _Kinda._**

 **(Because hey, this may not be Sol 6, but it's still Jack-angst, and Jack-angst is _always_ good)**

 **Warning: This arc does contain depictions of self-destructive behavior. Please consider carefully before reading.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

It takes a little getting used to. Winter spirits are known for their uncontrollable powers, after all, and the fact that increased belief is causing his powers to swell does not help much. It is many a day and many a night that goes by before he figures out how to repress them, how to keep them under control.

Even when he does manage to get the hang of it, it is still difficult. He feels like he is trying to check a wild stallion with nothing but a flimsy piece of string, his magic churning in his veins and curdling like spoiled milk, and oftentimes he slips, frost and ice exploding outwards from his core and leaving him drained and despondent.

He continues, though. It will take practice, he realizes, and it will be worth it, in the end.

* * *

The rain pours solemnly from the gray morning sky, pitter-pattering quietly against the rooftop. It soaks into his hair and clothes, gradually drenching him, the water running down his body in rivulets.

He notes, to his pleasure, that while it does cool a little, the water does not freeze solid when in contact with him, as it is often wont to do. He is getting better, little by little, his self-control growing by the day, and though it hurts sometimes, though occasionally his powers beg to be released from their restraints, though often he feels tempted to throw all caution to the winds and let his wild unpredictable powers come out to play, he feels a kind of savage victory for every second he manages to control himself, and it is enough to keep him going.

With a fake-looking jauntiness to his step, he walks across the roof, bare feet splashing in the puddles that are growing ever larger on the gray concrete. Again, no ice forms, and again, he feels victorious, even as his vision begins to turn slightly blurry from the effort of straitjacketing his powers.

He is winning, he knows this. It will be worth it, in the end.

* * *

It feels glorious, for the past two weeks he's managed to stifle his magic almost entirely, and though his head throbs and his bones ache he feels triumphant. He revels in the pain prickling underneath the surface of his skin, delights in the sensation of his own powers attempting to rip him apart at the seams, for he knows that he is succeeding, and he is delirious with joy.

(it still hurts, but it will be worth it, in the end)

* * *

He dances on the wind like the snowflakes he creates, the gusts tossing him side to side like a piece of blue-and-white chiffon. It's been three weeks now, and he is still holding strong, the magic ebbing painfully in his blood but never letting loose.

 _It's worth it_ , he reminds himself, even as another wave of agony brushes delicately against his nerve cells. _It will be worth it, in the end._

* * *

He is a failure and a screw-up.

He lies on the ground, wincing, his soul feeling painfully raw. The blast was sudden and catastrophic, ripping his insides to shreds and leaving him gasping at every movement, sharp stabs of hurt traveling through his body whenever he dares to budge even slightly, as if his bones were replaced by bits of broken glass.

Hours later, he eventually opens his eyes to the sight of ice and frost surrounding him in a terrifying circle, the patterns sharp and jagged. Somehow, this sight inspires him to grit his teeth and try again, the spiked curls of frost reminding him of why he tried to control himself in the first place. He is dangerous, wild, and unpredictable, and while that was not a problem before, now he has friends that he interacts with constantly, and he needs to learn to control himself if he does not want to hurt them accidentally.

It will be worth it. It will be worth it, in the end.

* * *

Next time, he lasts five weeks, before collapsing in Antarctica and allowing his powers to slip from his grasp. Again it feels like they're ripping his body into shreds, and again it takes him hours to recover, groaning as he hauls himself to his feet and tries again.

It will be worth it, in the end.

* * *

It takes three months before everything goes to hell.

The latest loss of control is drastic, icing over nearly two thousand square miles of Antarctica's frozen surface within a span of three seconds, and he feels limp like a ragdoll, the savagely abrupt drain of power causing his heartbeat to stutter and his vision to double. His only wish is to crash in a snowbank somewhere and stay there for a little while.

It seems Fate is against him, however, for as soon as he finds a spot untouched by his ice, where he can burrow himself into the old coarse snow, the aurora appears in the sky.

Damn. He forgot that there is a meeting today. Momentarily, he considers simply ignoring it, but he knows that his disappearance will only prompt the others to try and search for him, and he doesn't have the energy to hide from them.

Shaking his head in weariness, he summons the Wind. As he leaps into the air, a wave of dizziness overcomes him, and the crash of agony that follows his movement nearly makes him black out.

"Ugh, _ow..."_

The Wind hastily lowers him back down to the ground, and he cries out as his feet impact the snow, a jolt of pain starting at his feet and traveling up his spine, knocking the breath out of him. He flinches and wraps his arms around himself, and tries to ignore the cold seeping into his bones and the aches in every muscle.

It will be worth it, in the end.

* * *

His second attempt to fly is successful, for he is this time prepared for the onslaught of discomfort. The remainder of the flight is no better, however, the jostling of the Wind worsening the pain, and he is relieved when he finally lands inside the meeting room of the Workshop, feet aching as he places his weight upon them once more.

"Ah, Jack! How are you doing, my boy?"

North's loud voice booms inside the room, and Jack winces slightly before quickly plastering a smile on his face and turning towards the Cossack. "Hey, North. I'm fine, how 'bout you?"

He is deeply conscious of Bunny's suddenly piercing gaze and Sandy's worried frown, and he mentally smacks himself. Normally, he is better at acting than this. _Normally._

North, however, is yet oblivious, rambling as he is wont to do. "I am well, Jack. Come! You are just in time for hot chocolate. Is new recipe yetis are trying, you will like it, da? With peppermint."

Despite himself, his grin turns genuine. "That sounds great."

North smiles and returns to his armchair, boots thumping against the wooden floor, and Jack follows suit, settling into his usual place at the window-seat before gratefully accepting a mug of hot chocolate from one of the yetis.

The cup is warm in his hands, almost scalding, too hot for him to drink, and yet he forgoes his usual method of freezing it. Sandy clearly notices this, and so does Tooth, but a quick grin from the winter spirit deflects their concern and quiets any irritating questions.

He leans back against the window, suppressing a cringe at the painful contact, and watches as the meeting resumes.

It will be worth it, in the end.

* * *

 **A/N: Cower, mortal! For I am GoddessOfTechnology, deity of crappy writing, starting several arcs at once (yes, this is going to be an arc), too many linebreaks, and a narrative that contains _few to no word contractions._**

 **...I do not know why I did that, btw. It just..."he is" sounded better than "he's"? For some reason? Maybe?**

 **...  
**

 **(Questions? PM me)**

 **(Techie out.)**


	16. Second Best

**A/N: This is me procrastinating the writing of Sol 6.**

 **No, but, in all seriousness, I _am_ trying. It's just...not working. For some reason. Blah.**

 **Anyway, that aside, let's get down to business. Up next we have a simpler and possibly more boring one-shot, but it's all I can do for now. Life has not been kind to me lately.**

 **(On a slightly less...sad note, I'd like to thank all of you for your wonderful reviews. I normally don't like mentioning them overly much, since I don't want to seem like I'm begging for them [which I'm really not, I don't write for the sake of reviews], but since we've reached one hundred I feel like it's time to thank all of you lovely people. So thank you, I really appreciate it.)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

It started from the moment of her birth, from the moment that seven-year-old Jackson Overland laid eyes on his newborn sister. In that instant, he knew that his purpose in life was to protect this child, to shield her from the darkness and hatred that lurked in this world, to coddle her and make sure that no one dared to harm her. He didn't know this in quite so many words, of course, for a seven-year-old child is not as eloquent or experienced as that, but the raw sentiment was there in its entirety.

People in the village said that Jackson Overland changed, that day. While before he had been a solitary child, almost cat-like in his sense of pride and independence, now he was far more like an affable dog that accepted love and care from everyone without distinction, but always remained loyal to its master. His newfound position as an older brother fitted him like a glove, and those who knew him were taken aback by his protectiveness, his loyalty, and his insistence that "no one hurts my little sister!". This new behavior seemed out of character for the haughty Overland boy, and it took a little getting used to.

Once the villagers saw the little girl, however, it was not hard to see just why Jackson cherished her so. Indeed, it was impossible not to adore the girl, with her doe-like brown eyes, her soft and mousy brown hair, her button nose, her laugh. She was perfect in every respect.

Unlike her brother.

Jack may have changed that day, his cold demeanor melted away at the new-found warmth his younger sister brought into his heart, but he now developed an entirely new set of problems. The trickster spirit suddenly awoke in him, and from the early age of ten he was already causing chaos in the village. People no longer spoke of him with disdain or with pleased surprise, but instead with irritation and anger.

 _"Jack! Give that back!"_

 _"Silly child, why must you act this way-"_

 _"Something wrong with him, I swear-"_

 _"Jack, put that down-"_

 _"Why can't you be more like your sister-"_

Ah, yes. Why couldn't he be more like his sister, indeed. Emma was the perfect child, obedient, calm, and quiet, while her older brother was a hoodlum and a nuisance. Why couldn't he be more like her?

Over time, no one bothered to conceal their dislike of "that Overland boy", and their preference for Emma. Tempers became pricklier, and sometimes someone would scold Jack for almost no reason at all. The chant never ended, coming from all sides, _why can't you be like your sister? Why can't you be like your sister?_

It grew worse as time went on. Emma was smarter than Jackson, able to catch on quickly and effectively. Reading and writing came easily to the girl, while Jack had more difficulty, to the point where even his ever-patient mother became frustrated with him. Emma could learn faster, work faster, run faster; she perpetually left Jack behind in the dust, basking merrily in the praise and affection of others while her own brother was left on the sidelines, his strong sense of loyalty the only thing making him stay.

She never realized his troubles, however, and Jack would make sure it stayed that way. She didn't need to know what was happening, didn't need to know about the chilly looks and cold shoulders that he received all day, every day. She deserved to be happy, to be having fun, and it was Jack's duty as an older brother to make sure she stayed that way.

* * *

He stared blankly at the note in his hands, thin fingers gripping tightly at crumpled and worn paper as he read and reread what was written upon it. Although he rarely felt angry, pure rage now heated his veins, making his hands shake and vision blur as he glared at the paper.

It shouldn't bother him this much. Thomas was an arrogant idiot, with an ego that was ridiculously large, and the whole village knew he was petty and vicious with a cruel streak that didn't belong in little children. The stupid poem shouldn't bother him this much, he knew that.

Then why did he feel like crying?

 _There was once a boy in Burgess,_  
 _Who was known for his temper and crossness,_  
 _Then came his sister,_  
 _Who tempered his anger_ ,  
 _And left him idiotic and spineless!_

He felt like screaming, but continued to read, the words branding themselves in his mind.

 _He fancied himself her protector,_  
 _For the goddess he constructed an altar,_  
 _But the cruel truth was,_  
 _He was useless as fuzz,_  
 _And annoyed her far more than he helped her._

He wanted to deny it, wanted to march up to Thomas and demand he take back these words, but he couldn't…

 _In appearance and brain she outmatched him,_  
 _In strength and in speed she outdid him,_  
 _Behind her he trailed,_  
 _Forever he failed,_  
 _His stupidity and brazenness defiled him!_

...Because as much as he didn't want to admit it…

 _Oh, why couldn't he cease to annoy her?_  
 _Couldn't he see that he was being a bother?_  
 _She does not need a lackey,_  
 _So go home, Jackie,_  
 _And stop irritating your sister!_

...They were _true._

 _-By Thomas Brown._

He gritted his teeth, and with three brisk movements he tore the note into shreds, before tossing away the bits of paper erratically. Through the tears that blurred his vision he watched as the lazy breeze scattered the shreds in all directions, and through the anger which choked him a strong hatred made its appearance.

He _hated_ Thomas Brown.

He shook his head, forcing the anger and hate back down. He was better than this, better than Thomas, who let his hate control his actions. Jackson Overland may have been the village idiot, but he knew enough to realize that loathing and fury would only poison his life.

Still, Thomas had no right. It was none of that haughty boy's business how Jack or Emma lived their lives. Even if some of Thomas' words did ring true, that didn't change the fact that he was a blockhead and a sneak-

"Jack?"

Snapped out of his musing, he looked sideways to see that Emma was next to him, looking up at him with a concerned expression. Forcing a smile on his face, the boy crouched down to be on eye level with her. "Yes, little lady?"

She gazed at him oddly. "Are you alright?"

For a moment, he wanted to say no. He wanted to admit that something was wrong, that Thomas was a contemptuous, unbearable nitwit. He wanted to tell her about the poem and his fears and the cruel words the other villagers told him, day in day out.

For a moment, he wanted to be weak.

"...I'm fine, Emma. Do you want to play hopscotch?"

* * *

 **A/N: ...So yeah. Boring, I know, but I tried. Hey, there's only so much you can do once demons, spirits, and magic are taken out of the picture and all you have left are kids doing kid-things in a colonial village.**

 **I'm kinda proud of that poem, though, it was hard to write. Limericks are hard to write.  
**

 **Questions? PM me.**

 **Techie out.**


	17. Guardian of the Guardians

**A/N: ::rises from the dead::**

 **::updates::**

 **::returns to the dead::**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

There were several reasons why Jack was currently feeling just a mite apprehensive.

One of them was the dryad. He'd meant the prank to be in good fun, of course, but dryads were notorious for their conspicuous lack of anything even remotely approaching a sense of humor. In addition, the vast majority of them abhorred winter spirits to an excessive degree. Thus, while the prank itself had been amusing (he would forever be surprised and entertained at how hysterically dryads always reacted towards out-of-season snow of any kind, it was just water for MiM's sake), he was certain it would return to bite him in the rear end eventually.

Another reason was Coyote. It was just about due time for another prank from the trickster spirit, and he needed to keep his guard up. After all, it would be simply terrible for his reputation if he, Guardian of Fun and trickster extraordinaire, got one-upped by a glorified dog that was plagued with fleas. That wouldn't do at all, now, would it?

The most pressing concern for the young spirit at that particular moment, however, was North.

North was acting...strange, lately. Like a child on Christmas Eve eagerly awaiting the coming morning. A homicidal, blood-thirsty child who was severely mentally unbalanced, that is.

It was not unusual for the Cossack to exude jolliness and cheer (far from it, he tended to radiate it with an almost overwhelming intensity) but this was not normal. North typically behaved like an overexcited puppy that was practically bouncing off the walls in its enthusiasm. Now, however, he behaved more like an overexcited puppy that was bouncing off the walls while secretly plotting to kill its owners, set fire to the house, and take over the country, all in no particular order.

...That didn't make much sense, did it?

The point was, North was clearly beginning to lose his mind, and Jack was (rightfully) worried. Being a Guardian was stressful, after all, and it was not unheard of for one of the Guardians to simply snap for a little while before regaining their senses. If memory served correctly, the last time this had happened to North, the Russian flooded two floors of the Workshop with molasses in an attempt to "revolutionize the production of Christmas confectionery everywhere," whatever molasses had to do with that.

No, seriously, just don't ask. Jack had known from the start that the Guardians weren't entirely...normal, but he hadn't figured on them being bat-shit crazy instead. He simply coped with them, he didn't try to rationalize or explain their occasionally kooky behavior.

...Even if he did sometimes wonder what the rationale was behind Tooth trying to "streamline tooth-collecting" by amassing dozens of computer mice and plugging them into...her wall. As in, literally her wall. Jack still wasn't entirely sure how she'd managed to exert enough force to repeatedly punch holes through solid tile with nothing but the end of a USB cable, nor did he know where the computer mice had come from in the first place. He'd asked, of course, but once the over-worked Tooth Fairy recovered from the sedative he'd forcefully administered (he drew a strong line at desecration of private property, even if it was the owner of said property who was doing the desecrating), she'd clammed up and refused to tell him anything, instead opting to blush strongly and hurriedly change the subject whenever he brought it up.

Which was, for the record, not terribly often. Only once or twice a week at most.

That aside, however, Jack was most concerned about North, especially as the Cossack had recently sent him a message (which is to say twelve) urging him to come to the Workshop to see him as quickly as possible, which in all probability meant that he was determined to rope Jack into whatever hare-brained scheme his burnt-out brain had concocted now.

...Scratch that, at this point Jack was more concerned about his own health than North's. He should seriously get around writing his will at some point, if being a Guardian meant that he was now supposed to babysit a bunch of loonies every time stress and overwork drove them off the deep end.

Shaking his head while mentally praying to whatever deity may be listening, the winter spirit raised his fist and knocked firmly on the door to North's office, deliberately ignoring the voice of sanity in his mind that insisted that this was a very, very bad idea.

After all, his friend and coworker needed him, and Jack would help.

...As long as it didn't somehow involve the loss of any parts of his body, that is. Good replacement arms were so hard to find nowadays...

* * *

"You want to _what?_ "

Jack couldn't believe his ears. He couldn't. Nothing could make him believe what he had just heard. His ears were liars and crooks and that was final.

Of course, that was when North repeated his statement, causing any meager hope that Jack had entertained towards perhaps having misheard to be set on fire and thrown out a window ten stories high.

Jack gaped. He'd expected something demented, like plots to overthrow the British government, or attempts to reinvent the cheeseburger. He'd expected elaborate plans involving either pigeons or wads of used chewing gum or both. He'd expected many crazy things.

He had _not_ expected something this brain-numbingly stupid, insane, and suicidal.

"No, North, this is out of the question. I am _not_ going out to fight dragons with you!"

The Cossack looked extremely confused. "Why not, my friend?"

"Because they're...well, they're _dragons_ , North! Don't you know what they _do_ to spirits? Especially winter ones?"

Dragons were well known for both their ugly tempers and their equally ugly looks. Scaly, leathery, they looked like giant crocodiles armed with bat wings and an excess of spikes and teeth. Their limbs were misshapen, their breath was fiery, and they were extremely difficult to kill, their thick skin blocking most enchantments, spells, or blasts of raw magic.

Oh, and much like the rest of the spirit population, they hated winter spirits with a vindictive passion. So no, Jack was not looking forward to meeting one of them. Ever. In any lifetime.

North's eyes glittered dangerously at Jack's pronouncement, the Guardian of Wonder apparently undeterred by Jack's argument. " I am aware, my friend. Which is why we must stamp them out at earliest opportunity!"

Oh, no. No, no, no. This was one idiotic plan that Jack was not going to be a part of, ever. He might care about his friends, but this was pure unmitigated insanity.

The winter spirit took a step back, holding his staff to his chest in a subconscious gesture of self-defense. "Okay...well, North, that's nice to know, but I think we should at least get some help or backup before trying to fight off a _dragon_. So, why don't I go get Bunny-"

"No!" North suddenly looked enraged. "We are not involving him! I will show that I have no need for the help of egg-obsessed fur-ball! _Проклятие!_ "

Jack blinked. "Okaaay…I'll just go get Sandy then-"

"No," repeated the Cossack with frightening gravity. "We will go alone, just the two of us. The others underestimate us, my friend, we must prove that we can do without their aid!"

This...was not good. As far as Jack could tell, he currently only had one way out of this mess. One way or another, he had to somehow get out of North's office long enough to activate the Northern Lights so he could get the other, saner Guardians to help. North was too far gone for him to take care of on his own, and if he left the Workshop to bring back-up then only MiM knew what North would do without supervision.

(It was times like this when he wished he had the yetis on his side, but alas, the creatures were too intelligent and had gone into hiding the moment North started exhibiting signs of going around the bend. They always did at these times, bless them.)

A plan quickly forming in his mind, Jack took another step back towards the door, bracing himself for a rapid exit if the need arose. "...Alrighty then. I'll be with you in just a moment-"

"It can wait, Jack! There is no time to lose, we must leave at once! To interior of _Dent du Chat_ mountain!"

Before he knew it, there was a crash, a shatter, a whirl of colors...and a beefy hand seizing his shoulder before roughly tossing him through the shimmering portal.

* * *

His knees buckled as he slammed into the rocky ground, and he tripped, practically falling down onto the stone surface, his knees scraping against the floor painfully. For a few moments, he simply laid down on the ground as he questioned every single one of his life decisions that had brought him to this point.

Eventually, a large finger tapped his shoulder. "Are you well, my friend?"

"I'm fine," he snapped at the demented Guardian of Wonder, as he began to clamber reluctantly to his feet. "No thanks to you, by the way."

"Good," either North missed the jab, or ignored it. "Then I suggest you prepare yourself."

"...What the hell does _that_ mean?" Jack asked, dread churning in his stomach.

North pointed at a spot behind Jack, and against his better judgment, the winter spirit turned around.

* * *

 _I'm going to kill North._

That was the main thought on Jack's mind as he stared down a giant, vicious, charcoal-gray dragon.

The creature was huge, nearly filling the dark, dank cave which could have easily fitted the whole of Buckingham Palace and then some. It crouched like a praying mantis stalking its prey, its wry muscles braced for attack, red eyes glowering at Jack menacingly as it silently dared the winter spirit to try and steal the hoard of gold that it jealously guarded.

It yawned, and his heart leaped into his throat as he caught a glance of its razor-sharp teeth, still stained as they were with blood and rot. This was it, he was dead. Here lies Jack Frost, December 14, 1695—July 7, 2017. Beloved brother and son.

He'd had a good run, at least.

"North?" he said very, very quietly, doing his best to keep his voice the epitome of calm. "I want you to know that if I die and you get out alive, I expect you to pay all my funeral fees. Also, you will not inherit any of my belongings after my demise."

The dragon moved a few steps closer, and Jack spoke faster, heart beating frantically in his chest like a war-drum. "As far as the grave is concerned, I wish it to be placed beside my sister's at the Burgess Cemetery, and I want forget-me-nots to be placed there every Wednesday. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," replied North, his face suddenly as white as paper.

"Good."

Which was right about when the dragon attacked.

* * *

The world was hazy and dark and warm, and yet Jack's mind was elsewhere.

He remembered fire and scorching heat, remembered frantically trying to avoid becoming roasted. He recollected twisting and turning in the air as he struggled to remain always one step ahead of the overgrown lizard, to never stay in one place for long, to evade the blasts of red fire the creature kept breathing at him.

Most of all, he recalled fighting. Recalled firing blast after blast of icy winter magic straight into the dragon's mouth, for that was the most vulnerable part of the beast. Remembered darting about like a madman, clashing with the brute over and over again until he felt dizzy and out of sorts, the drain on his power almost too much for him.

(Vaguely, he thought he had some memories of North attempting valiantly to engage in combat as well, the Cossack hanging on to the dragon's face as he hacked at the red eyes with his sword, but he couldn't be too sure. Kudos to North if the memories were true, though, it was a nice thought on his part)

At some point, the spotty memories told him he had been bleeding, blood leaking from a hole in his shoulder. He'd also sustained several nasty burns during the course of the fight, though he didn't exactly retain how he'd received them.

...There had been blood dripping from his mouth as well, if memory served correctly. He remembered nearly choking on it.

Sighing, the winter spirit pried his eyes open, ready to face the world (or rather the Workshop Infirmary, if his eyesight was any indication) once again. He had a pretty good idea what had happened to him, and knew that the next few days were going to be...painful. He'd used up too much of his magic during the battle, having drained it until he'd caused himself severe internal injuries, and it would take time for him to heal.

All in all, what with the pain and trying to bring North back to his senses, the next few days would be nasty-

North.

Was he all right?

He glanced over the room, finding it empty except for himself and a yeti slumbering in a corner, and almost immediately his mind began to spiral into a panic. What was North doing now? Was he on some other insane mission, doing something so unbelievably stupid that it would get him hurt?

Was he killed by the dragon?

No, no he wasn't. A disjointed memory came to mind, the dragon's corpse lying on the ground, himself on the brink of loosing consciousness, and something shaking his shoulder as North's voice asked him if he was all right. No, North had escaped from the dragon.

Still, he could be doing something else just as thoughtless as endeavoring to kill a dragon, and Jack had to make sure he was fine-

He did a double-take. Why was there a yeti in the room? Weren't they supposed to be in hiding…?

Oooooh. Okay. So that meant that North had returned to his senses.

Good. Maybe Jack didn't have to get up quite yet. He settled down in the bed, making himself comfortable among the blankets as he tried not to jar his existing injuries. A bit of sleep sounded lovely at this point.

Although, North was going to compensate for this later. Once Jack felt a little less like a walking corpse, he swore to hunt down North and make him pay…

 _In pranks._

Woe betide Nicholas St. North, for now he shall face a trickster's wrath.

* * *

 **A/N: ...Not much to say, honestly. I was considering doing a Christmas special, but that didn't happen. So instead you get demented North, which I hope makes up for my general suckiness (seriously the last time I updated was December the freaking FOURTH).**

 **Anyway, I hope you liked this attempt at humor, and happy holidays!**

 **(Questions? PM me.)**

 **(Techie out [to lunch].)**


	18. Not Proud

**A/N: Hello again, guys. Nice to see you again. I'm back with another deathfic.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

 _"We are rarely proud when we are alone."_ -Voltaire

* * *

He is not proud of what he does. It is not for nothing, after all, that winter is known as the season of death and eternal sleep, that he and his ilk are thought of as cruel and dangerous, that others shun him and deride him. It is not for nothing that he is considered a menace, and it is not for nothing that he had remained alone, so alone, for the past three centuries.

The blunt, harsh, unfeeling truth of it all is that winter _is_ deadly. It _is_ hazardous. It is made to destroy warmth and happiness, to either kill or stupefy all living things, to drive all warm-loving creatures far away from the bitter cold and the callous chill. It is meant to stifle hope, wonder, memories, dreams, and fun, to stamp them out until nothing but raw despair is left behind, and while he may temper and calm it when he can, he cannot tame it or soften the blow. Winter is wild and uncontrollable, and even he, its lord and master, oftentimes cannot quite rein it in.

Perhaps it is this very fact, that he is _the_ Spirit of Winter, _the_ Winter King, _the_ Suzerain of Winter and _the_ Lord of Winter, that he cannot control his own season. "Like season, like spirit" goes the saying, and as winter is heartless and treacherous, so Jack is very much the same. He sympathizes too much with his season's temperament to fully try and discipline it, understands it _just_ a little too well to really realize where it crosses lines, and sometimes he has difficulty feeling remorseful when a blizzard rages and happens to bury an adult or two in blank, white, expressionless snow.

( _Adults,_ mind. If it is a child, he feels immeasurably guilty, ripping his own hair out in agitation. But he moves on, as all people do, and soon the frostbitten body of the child is nothing more than a hazy memory that he does his best to ignore and forget.)

He is not a monster, though, whatever others may say. He does not lack the _ability_ to feel, the _capability_ to regret and to be compassionate. It is simply that this faculty is one that he has long ago laid to rest, like a meadow that his season sends to sleep, and it lays dormant in his chest like a heavy brick that he neglects. Scorning his own emotions is a necessary defense mechanism, for if he had chosen to feel, he would have gone insane long before now, guilt and sorrow chipping away at his mind until he succumbed to the madness. No, it is far better _not_ to feel, to be frozen and hard-hearted like the season he controls, to dance recklessly with the wind and cold and be uncaring of who he hurts.

He is not proud of what he does, but he is not regretful either, and as long as he is not restless from guilt, he is at peace.

* * *

The Guardians change everything. Like burning brush, they scorch and melt through his shields of ice. He never felt as much as he does during Easter of '12, never before experienced the miscellany of emotions that he is forced to endure during those three days, never before felt grief, anger, fear, regret as much as on that day. Those emotions were muted, before, muffled and hidden away from sight, but the Guardians pull them to the surface like fishing lines reeling in trouts from a pond.

Making him the Guardian of Fun is the killing blow, the final hammer that shatters his defenses. While before his heart was frozen, emotions dampened and numbed, now all of a sudden he can _feel,_ and it hurts like the stinging of a frostbitten limb that is suddenly brought close to the searing fire to be warmed.

In vain, he tries to put his armor back on, immersing himself in the blistering cold of his season. Dancing on the frigid wind quiets the pain, but it does not kill it like it used to, and as soon as he is finished with his seasonal duties every single negative emotion comes back to the surface.

Guilt, for the people he and his season have killed. Low self-esteem, since a murderer like he cannot be a proper Guardian. Fear, that the Guardians will find out who and _what_ he is, that they would drive him away. It's enough to drive him mad, and reminds him just why he shut himself away.

He keeps his mouth shut, however, and endures through the storm.

He is not proud. Instead, he is regretful.

* * *

The time comes, eventually, for him to reveal everything. His spies have warned him that the fire spirits are planning to attack the Winter Court and hopefully assassinate him, and though he wants to, he cannot handle this on his own. Climate change has weakened the Winter Court, and he himself is in no fit state to lead his people, emotions making his head spin and his blood ache. In a last-ditch attempt to save winter, he crawls to the Guardians for help, a move that stomps his dignity into the dust.

They listen to him, expressions closed off as he explains just who he is, what he does, and why he needs their help. Their empty eyes make him nervous, make his palms sweaty as unease grows in his chest, and he wonders if he made the right decision.

He soon finds out the answer when they ask him to resign from the Guardians. He is...not shocked, for he expected this, but he isn't happy either. He feels vaguely disappointed in the four, as if he expected better from them.

Nevertheless, he accepts, watching dispassionately as they reverse the process that made him one of them, and when he leaves the North Pole, he is an ex-Guardian, a has-been, a failed experiment left to rot.

He is alone again, and he does not feel proud.

* * *

His discomfort is obvious when he returns to the Winter Court, and Yuki-Onna, General of the Winter Court Army and his aide-de-camp, is quick to pull him aside and ask him what is wrong.

When he tells her that the Guardians have refused to give their aid, her expression collapses like a soufflé that is taken too soon out of the oven, a mix of despair and disappointment dancing across her face. It soon clears, however, blankness taking the place of emotion, and with business-like precision she asks him what his future orders are, though not before inquiring how he is.

"I'm fine," he says, doing his best to hide the way he stutters over the words, and barrels on to give her instructions for preparing defenses. He knows that she knows that he is hurt by the Guardian's betrayal, but she does not pry, for she neither cares nor wants to care.

When she finally walks away to pass on his orders to the soldiers, he slumps.

He is doing the best he can, but he is not proud.

* * *

The battle is brief, and it is winter that comes out the loser. His people try, they do, but trying is rarely enough, and this case is no exception.

Jack himself does not try, his heart heavy at the Guardians' abandonment, depriving him of the will to survive. The leader of the fire spirits corners him in a room of the Winter Palace, holding him at knife-point against the cool wall, and the blow is quick, the metal sinking into his chest with a squelch.

He does not give the other the satisfaction of hearing him scream, not that it makes much of a difference.

The fire spirit, true to form, gloats as he watches him bleed out on the carpet, and Jack leans back against the wall as he slowly sinks to the ground, powerless to do anything to aid his people as they are massacred by the enemy. His eyes gradually close as screams assail his ears, and the mocking rumble of his antagonist's voice grates harshly on his ear.

A sudden impulse consumes him, and his head snaps upright as he glares at his killer. Somehow, he wants to have the final word, for winter is the end to all things, and he doesn't want that taken away from him.

The thoughts are foggy in his mind as his body rises without conscious control, an icy knife forming in his hand, the blade burying itself in his tormentor's torso. He watches dispassionately as the fire spirit falls, crumples, dies, before following his example.

His eyes still blaze blue, even as he grows still, the light dimming before turning to darkness, the bleeding turning to leaking, his own cold blood mingling on the floor with the warm one of his killer.

He dies, same as ice melts when brought close to the fire.

Still, he is not proud.

* * *

 **A/N:** **This is...kinda incoherent. I'm sorry. I had plans for this story, guys, but I suck at following up on them. Blargh.  
**

 **(Questions? PM me.)**

 **(Techie out.)**


	19. Not Proud 2

**A/N: An update within four days? Impossible! Witchcraft! :o**

 **Don't get used to it, though, this probably won't happen again anytime soon.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

At first, the Guardians are not proud of what they have to do to survive. Allowing someone new to their ranks, especially someone as volatile and undeserving as a winter spirit, is an action that leaves a bitter taste layered on their tongues, as if they swallowed cold coffee. Yet it is necessary for the sake of the children, and with reluctance in their hearts and fake glee on their faces (apart from Bunny, who makes no effort to hide his irritation) they steel themselves for the worst.

The worst does not come. Instead, they are pleasantly surprised. Jack is somewhat strange, it is true, quite unlike his murderous brethren, but he is different in a good way, focusing on the fun and joy that winter can offer, instead of the death and desolation it brings. At times, he seems distant from the situation at hand, but overall he is a better man than they expected him to be.

Certainly, there are hiccups. Bunny especially has difficulty ignoring his prejudices, his mind filled with memories of that disastrous Easter of '68, when he traveled to New York only to see half the city covered in several feet of snow, with numerous deaths. In the middle of it all was Jack, face perfectly blank, no sign of emotion except for anger burning in dark blue eyes as he manipulated the storm to do his bidding.

A horrifying sight, and one that haunts Bunny to this day. One cannot blame him for being bitter.

In the end, it all works out, however, despite the momentary scare when they thought he betrayed them, and their adventure ends with the children saved, Pitch Black defeated, and a new member in their ranks, the aptly-named Guardian of Fun.

They have done well, all five of them.

For once in their lives, the Big Four are proud.

* * *

Their pride is soon replaced by concern. Something is wrong with their newest recruit, and they cannot help but be worried.

Jack is acting...different, for lack of a better word. His exuberance feels fake, now, and more often than not the four see a pale spirit whose face is filled with vacancy, a spirit several millennia older than they know him to be, instead of the vibrant teen they have come to be familiar with. It makes them uncomfortable, for they have no idea who this new Jack is, and he scares them slightly.

As if to make matters worse, snowstorms have been appearing everywhere, violently ripping places apart as they drown the streets in snow. Sometimes, one of the four comes a little too close to one of these disturbances, and sees Jack hovering in the middle of the chaos, face expressionless and eyes grim.

It is unnerving and disquieting, but they say nothing, for they doubt that it is their place to do so. If, perchance, they also feel a little frightened of the winter spirit...well, no one needs to know that apart from them.

They are cowards, unwilling to face their troubles, and they know it.

They are not proud.

* * *

The day of reckoning comes swiftly enough, Jack crawling to them one September morning, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Without so much as a greeting or an apology, he launches into his tale, oblivious to the shock and horror that the Guardians feel as he reveals secrets long kept hidden.

They all have heard the stories, that winter spirits are evil and dangerous, that their leader is even more so. They've listened to stories of deaths, of pain, of frostbitten corpses left underneath pure, untouched snow, a beautiful, treacherous mantle that hides the morbid truths that lay beneath the surface.

The problem is that they should have difficulty reconciling their youngest with the fabled killer that is the Winter King. They should be disbelieving, aghast, all _'this can't be possible'_ and _'there must be some mistake_ ', but...they aren't. It is all too easy to connect the two, to associate the heartless assassin known as the Suzerain of Winter with the young man in front of them, to look at the Guardian of Fun and see only a merciless soldier who does not belong in their ranks.

It is therefore painfully easy to get rid of him, to ask him to leave forever, to consign themselves to an eternity without Jack Frost in their lives. It is for the best, after all, and the Guardians are good at hurting both themselves and others for the sake of the greater good.

When he departs, they should be relieved. Instead, they feel vaguely disappointed, though in who or what they do not know.

They turn away from the open window that he used as an exit, and they do not feel proud.

* * *

Slowly, they forget him. As time goes by, they immerse themselves further and further in their work, pushing back memories in favor of focusing on the present, and thus, they forget him. Before a few decades have passed, it is as if Jack Frost has never intruded on their lives, as if the barren snowscape that was their existence has never been marred by an outsider's footprints.

The children do not forget him, however, and oftentimes they hear whispered rumors of his continued existence. The stories are not many or varied, but they serve to assuage the guilt that they do not know they feel, to soothe some ruffled part of them that they cannot name. Sugar-coated lies are very good at helping people to forgive themselves, and a person will take every opportunity to absolve themselves from blame, for if there is one thing that one cannot stand, it is the heavy feeling of guilt, like a brick in one's chest.

They do not know, nor do they care to know, that Jack Frost is not actually alive at all, that the rumors are merely stories spread by the Winter Court in an effort to conceal their Lord's death from the too-curious ears of outsiders. They do not know that their unwillingness to help someone in need has led to the death of a great warrior and an even greater friend, and moreover, they do not wish to know. They would rather hide behind their jobs and forget about the life they destroyed, than admit their wrongdoings and somehow atone for them.

They have not escaped this adventure unscathed, however. They might not realize it, but the pain still lingers, slowly eating their hearts and souls until one day they will be forced to face the truth.

They will never again feel that glorious, bright, thrilling pride that they felt when they allowed Jack into their ranks, when for the briefest of times they were not alone, when they were five instead of four. They will never again know what it is like to be proud of oneself, and perhaps...perhaps that is punishment enough. Perhaps.

They are alone, and they are not proud, nor will they ever be again.

* * *

 **A/N: Since I can't find any data for a real-life Easter Blizzard of '68, I instead decided to make one up, using the Lindsay Snowstorm as reference (the Lindsay Snowstorm was a disastrous storm that occurred in the winter of 1968-1969, and affected part of the east coast of the USA. The place that suffered some of the worst damage was New York City. It is estimated that overall 94 people died in this storm).**

 **Also, for those who might bleat that Jack is OOC...notice that I never stated that Jack was the one who caused/worsened the blizzard. For all you know, he could have been trying to alleviate it. I'm not saying that's what happened, I'm just giving you something to think about. Bunny might have the wrong end of the stick here.**

 **(Questions? PM me)**

 **(Techie out)**


	20. One Hundred Lives

**A/N: I have a tendency to cross over all my stories in some way. That said, this one is an exception and is not connected at all to my other stories. Just so you know.  
**

 **Also, this combines book-canon with movie-canon, hence Bunny being around since before the Ice Ages, and wearing a funny coat.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.  
**

* * *

 _For the longest time, he lived alone, not because he couldn't find friends if he so chose, but because he preferred solitude to companionship and silence to noise. Winter was a season meant for silence, after all, and it was not unreasonable to assume that its caretaker would be just as interested in an existence spent in quietude. As such, Jokul Frosti was a loner in the truest sense of the word, and for many years he remained that way, a lone wolf in a sea of lone wolves._

 _One afternoon, however, a change was brought to his life in the form of an accidental meeting. For the first time, someone tried (albeit inadvertently) to infringe on his tranquility, to bring him out of his shell, to introduce him to such foreign concepts as that of 'conversation' and 'friendship' and 'people'._

 _That someone, he would later learn, was E. Aster Bunnymund, Creator of Life. The lagomorph was ridiculously uptight, always speaking in extremely formal tones and only leaving his Warren when clothed in a heavy, proper coat, even in exceedingly warm weather. The rabbit was, in short, hilarious, and something about him automatically made Jokul want to mock him and make fun of him._

 _This constant taunting and exchange of banter soon evolved into a friendship between the two, a camaraderie that developed from harsh jeering to gentle teasing to full-blown trust and closeness. For the first time, Jokul Frosti had a friend, and for the first time he was not adverse to the idea._

 _That would soon change, however, and not for the better._

 _It was an accident, really, a momentary loss of control. Jokul hadn't meant to cause an ice age, he really hadn't, but being in charge of all of winter was hard, and he couldn't really be blamed for temporarily losing his control, could he?_

 _Apparently, Bunny thought otherwise._

 _Never before had Jokul heard such words from the normally impassive Pooka. Insults, curses, accusations, if you could imagine it than it was likely said on that day. One of the reasons Jokul had renounced having friends in the first place was that they turned against you so easily._

 _The most damaging thing that the Pooka had said, however, was a curse. Not one of those swears that would have made a sailor wince, but an all-out curse, like those said by witches and sorcerers._

 _"Curse you, Jokul Frosti, curse you and all your kind! You winter spirits live only to kill and maim and hurt, to twist the truth with lies and use the hearts of others to your own end, and it would be a favour to decent folk if I were to destroy every last one of you! However, I am not a killer, Jokul Frosti, not in the way that you are, and as such I hereby consign your brethren to suffer until the end of time, to be permanently hated by all without exception. But not you, Jokul Frosti, you shall not be punished so lightly._

 _"I hereby give you one hundred lives and one hundred deaths, to use as you see fit. If, by the time you reach your final death, you manage to atone for your sins, and to earn my forgiveness and that of those you have harmed, than you will be released from your agony, and be laid to eternal rest. If, however, you fail in this, than you will be doomed to an eternity as a mere shadow of your former self, a wandering soul that is forever denied a final resting place, and you will roam the universe, unseen and unheard, in endless torment. In this way I curse you, Jokul Frosti...In this way I, E. Aster Bunnymund, curse you."_

* * *

Jack Frost had always, _always_ hated E. Aster Bunnymund, from the very moment of his rebirth from the lake.

Why, exactly, he didn't really know. It wasn't a conscious effort, a way of thinking brought about by a bad experience or cruel rumours. Rather, it was more of a subtle nagging at the back of his mind, a part of him that irrationally despised the lagomorph even before he'd known the rabbit existed. It was this prejudice that had led him to create the disastrous Blizzard of '68, that automatically caused him to mock and deride the Pooka during Easter '12, that to this day still occasionally left sharp barbs hidden in the otherwise well-meaning banter that he shared with his furry coworker.

It wasn't really fair, he realized. Bunny had done nothing to him. There was no reason for this bitterness, for this poisonous loathing that infected his mind and ate at his heart. Yet, for some reason, he couldn't banish the feeling of pure animosity that lay hidden in his soul, no matter how hard he tried.

It was incredibly annoying. He knew he was better than this, knew that Bunny was an intelligent, proud, grumpy warrior and painter with adorable fluffy ears and a hilarious accent. Bunny was, all things considered, a pretty nice guy, and had done absolutely nothing to warrant Jack's chilling scorn.

It didn't help. The baseless anger and malice still remained, twisting his perception of the Pooka. Over and over again he convinced himself that he shouldn't hate his fellow Guardian, and over and over again he slipped back into his old way of thinking. Bunnymund was bad. Bunnymund had _hurt_ him. Bunnymund deserved to face his crimes.

 _What crimes?_ he asked himself. _What crimes? Bunny didn't do anything to me. I shouldn't hate him like this. Why do I hate him?_

 _Evil,_ his mind growled back at him. _Evil. Don't trust him. He hurt you. You hate him._

 _He didn't hurt me,_ he argued back, _so why do I hate him?_

It would take several more years before that question was finally answered.

* * *

If Tooth didn't stop talking about teeth within the next three minutes, Jack was going to die from boredom.

Not that Jack didn't understand the importance of teeth and the memories they contained, far from it, but teeth just weren't really his area. His interests were more skewed in favour of snowball-fights and freezing people's tongues to lampposts than endless ranting about incisors and premolars and other strange mouth parts. He just didn't have the same obsession with blood, teeth, and gums that Tooth seemed to be consumed by.

"And you should have seen Amelia's incisor, Jack, it was perfectly flossed, it's wonderful to think that a six-year old would be so good at taking care of her teeth-"

Yeah. Totally not his area of expertise, or even mild interest. He liked the fact that many kids were brushing and flossing properly, and that their memories were so carefully stored and taken care of, but he didn't want to hear about nothing but teeth for three hours, and he dared anyone other than Tooth to exhibit such an avid interest in the topic. Dentists didn't hold a candle to Tooth, the level of her fanaticism was in a class of its own. On a scale from one to ten on the "Teeth-Obsession Meter", she not only went off the charts, she set the charts on fire and walked away.

"Thomas hasn't been doing so well, though, I'm pretty sure he hadn't flossed once since his birth, his teeth are riddled with cavities-"

Jack did his best to hide the yawn that threatened to emerge, and waited.

"Ethan has been fantastic, though, he's really started to improve his brushing habits-"

Jack didn't bother trying to resist. "So, he's been _brushing_ up on his tooth-brushing? It really seems like he's _cleaning_ up his act."

Tooth took a moment to understand the joke, but once she did, she gave him a look that could be accurately described as the pictorial definition of 'unimpressed'. "Very funny, Jack. I'm dying from laughter. I'm sure that decades from now, the world will still speak of your joking-prowess, and will make sacrifices in your name, praying to you so they may share your wondrous skills."

Jack blinked at the sudden outpour of sarcasm from the Sister of Flight. "Didn't know you had a sarcastic streak, Tooth."

She shrugged nonchalantly. "It's one of the things that I inherited from my father. I've mostly given up on it over the past few centuries, though, since I didn't really have someone who understood it. North doesn't get sarcasm, Sandy is a star and can't fathom most human humor, and Bunny is in the same boat as Sandy, except he's a Pooka instead of a star. Which really just makes things worse, since Pookas were very focused on relying on logic and reason and they didn't have many forms of humor."

Jack ignored the venomous twisting in his chest upon hearing Bunny's name, instead opting to hide behind flippancy. "No one who spoke your language, huh? Yeah, I've had that problem. Kinda hard to make jokes when you're the only one who understands them. Turns out the Wind doesn't have much of a sense of humor, who knew?"

Tooth smiled gently. "I can imagine. But this wasn't why I called you here, oh dear is that the time I'm terribly sorry for making you wait-"

Jack was quick to reassure her, hand raised in a calming gesture. "It's no problem, Tooth. Don't worry about it."

When it looked like she was about to protest, he swiftly changed the subject. "Now, wasn't there a reason you called me? Do you need my help with something?"

"No, not really. It's just something strange that I wanted to show you. Do you think you could have a look at it?"

* * *

Jack raised first one eyebrow, then the other, at the mass of tooth canisters that covered the Tooth Fairy's desk, laid out in a neat, organized grid. Some were the traditional gold that indicated a human child, while others were the burnished silver that signified that the memories belonged to a spirit. "I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me here, Tooth."

Tooth wrung her hands. "It's...I'm not entirely certain, Jack, but it looks like all of these belong to the same person. I don't know, I've never experienced something like this before."

Something about what she said caught Jack's attention. "The same person? So kinda like reincarnation?"

"...Sort of. I think. Like I said, I've never heard of this before, but it definitely looks like these are all the same person. I've never seen memories between different people to be so well connected. It's like they're all joined by strings, one starting where the previous left off."

"Huh. That's weird," he stared at the mass of cases, head tilted slightly to one side as he considered. "Still, why did you call me? This isn't exactly my area of expertise."

Tooth gestured towards the desk. "Take a closer look."

Still puzzled, Jack hesitantly picked up one of the golden canisters and examined it. It looked no different from any of the other cartridges, bright gold with the familiar pattern of blue, green, and purple diamonds that decorated the top like a mosaic. Brow furrowed, he took a look at the picture attached to the side of the box-

And instantly felt like he'd been sucker-punched in the stomach, air whooshing from his lungs and everything.

The picture on the canister was definitely not one of him, but it was surprisingly similar. Though the boy in the picture had green eyes and black hair instead of his own blue and white, the face was very much like his own, almost unnervingly so.

What concerned him the most, however, was not so much the similarity, which could easily have been a coincidence, but the way that the canister seemed to 'fit' him, a feeling he'd only ever experienced with the container that housed his own memories.

As impossible as it may seem, these were _his memories._

Suddenly panicked, he picked up another case. And another, and another, and another, all with the same result, the same sensation of 'fitting', like they belonged to him. A hunted look in his eyes, he found himself trying to count them. There were at least a hundred of them, he could almost instinctively tell, at least a hundred of the shiny receptacles, all of which belonged to him.

"...These are all _mine,_ " he rasped, abruptly finding it extremely difficult to speak.

"...I thought as much," Tooth said very carefully, as if she were trying to calm a frightened animal. "You were the only one they seemed to fit. Jack, are you all right?"

He felt like he was going to faint. "I'm fine. Listen, Tooth, can I have a look at these? Please?"

"Of course, Jack, they're yours after all. Just remember to return them when you're done, and please let me know if you need my help."

His throat felt surprisingly dry, even as he nodded. "I will."

* * *

The first several dozen of them were somewhat interesting, but yielded no information as to how this phenomenon had occurred. For the most part, all they did was strengthen his conviction that yes, these were all his memories, and yes, somehow or other he'd ended up being reincarnated multiple times.

Boreas was one such reincarnation. Morozko was another. Itztlacoliuhqui, Ded Moroz, Father Winter, Old Man Winter, Aisoyimstan, Kuraokami, Khuno: all those were names he'd carried in his past lives, along with countless human names that he couldn't even begin to remember, what with how many there were. Something which he still found a little strange was that he'd also been female a few times. Khione, Poli'ahu, Marzanna, Beira, Skadi; hell, he'd even been a Yuki-Onna once or twice. If that wasn't weird, than he didn't know what was.

There still remained one unopened box, however. He'd been avoiding this particular container, feeling a curious anxiety that he didn't experience when he was faced with scouring the other cases, but now was the time to push back his emotions and muster the courage to open the canister. Somehow, he knew that this one was the one that contained all the answers, the one that would put his investigation to an end.

He took a deep breath, then another, then another.

Then, he tentatively opened the last box, a silver one with the name 'Jokul Frosti' etched on the side in cursive letters.

* * *

"Why would you do something like that?"

A question that should have been simple, and yet Bunnymund couldn't find it within himself to answer. Instead, he stood shell-shocked, glancing first at Jack, than at the silver tooth canister in his hand, then back at an increasingly irate and betrayed-looking Jack.

Now that the truth was revealed to him, it was quite easy to connect the Jokul Frosti of the ice ages with the Jack Frost of modern times. Honestly, he didn't know how he'd missed it before, all the signs had been there right in front of his nose, waiting for him to notice them.

...He didn't know how to react. Cursing Jokul Frosti was an action that he would regret to the end of his days, but the fact that Jack Frost was now caught in the crossfire…

It made things that much worse.

So, he did the only thing he could think of. He hugged Jack Frost. The winter spirit went stiff in his arms, but Bunny merely held him close as he nuzzled the young man's hair.

"I'm sorry, mate. I'm so sorry."

* * *

"I'm sorry, mate. I'm so sorry."

Words that should have been empty and void, but surprisingly enough, weren't. Bunny sounded sincere in his apology, his tone completely devoid of the lies that Jack instinctively expected.

It made things that much worse.

Almost before he knew it, Jack felt himself break down, felt tears coming into his eyes and harsh sobs rip his throat. He crumbled inwards, practically despairing as one final realization made itself clear to him.

The death of Jackson Overland, the demise of a common shepherd boy, had been his hundredth death. His last chance. One hundred tooth boxes, one hundred lives, one hundred deaths.

 _If, however, you fail in this, than you will be doomed to an eternity as a mere shadow of your former self, a wandering soul that is forever denied a final resting place, and you will roam the universe, unseen and unheard, in endless torment..._

It was too late for Bunny to forgive him now. Jack Frost would never die, would never have a true resting place. He would remain when his friends died, would remain when the world ended, would still be around even after the death of the universe itself. A mere shadow of his former self, wandering the universe in endless torment.

The strange part was that even though now he knew the true cause of his loathing for Bunny, he couldn't find it within himself to forgive him. If anything, his hatred of E. Aster Bunnymund only grew.

* * *

 **A/N: All the names I've mentioned Jack having are names of various winter deities/spirits.**

 **Curses are ridiculously difficult to remove once you create them (doesn't help that Bunnymund is pretty good at the whole magic thing), and they have a tendency to become more and more difficult to get rid of the longer you wait. In Jack's case, he's been cursed for millennia, essentially, so by the time he's reached his last death it's pretty much impossible to remove the curse. Also, look at one line from the curse: "A mere shadow of your former self." The curse permanently destroyed some part of Jack, reducing him to something less than spirit. He can't get back from that.**

 **One more thing: in the grand scheme of things, a few centuries/millennia with your friends doesn't seem like much compared with eons of solitude. North, Tooth, even Sandy will die eventually (from lack of belief if nothing else, kids aren't going to believe in Santa, the tooth fairy, and the Sandman forever), and although Bunny is (probably) meant to be immortal in the books, his life is tied to Earth. Once Earth dies via roasting by the sun, Bunny probably isn't going to be around much longer after that.**

 **That just leaves Jack. Alone. Forever. And unlike Jokul, Jack is super afraid of being alone. Bunny essentially did the worst thing he could do to Jack, which was curse him to an eternity of solitude. I'm not sure if you're familiar with the several theories about how the universe will end, but one of the most important ones states that slowly, the stars and planets will gradually disappear, until there is nothing but a scattering of black holes and empty space left, and even then the black holes will eventually evaporate. Imagine Jack forever floating alone through empty swathes of pure darkness, with nothing but his own thoughts to amuse him until the end of time itself. A fate worse than death.**

 **Sorry for the abrupt ending, btw.**

 **(Questions? PM me)**

 **(Techie out)**


	21. Obliged

**A/N: I hate this site's doc editor, and I want it to burn in flames.**

 **That aside, here is the monster. The big one. The 7,000+ word one-shot that _just wouldn't end._ This took me about five days to write, give or take. Ooof.**

 **Also, there's a semi-important announcement in the bottom A/N. So yeah.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

 _" _It's another bad dream  
Poison in my blood stream  
I'm dying but I can't scream  
Will you show me the way?__

 _It's another wolf bite  
Howlin' in the moonlight  
I wanna get my life right!  
Will you show me the way?  
Tonight_

 _If the darkness falls, and my angel calls  
In my despair  
Will you be there?  
In the darkest night  
When I need your light  
Will you show me the way?  
If my time runs out  
And the sky falls down  
Despite my fear  
Will you appear?  
If the world goes blind  
And I lose my mind  
Will you show me the way?  
Tonight"-"Wolf Bite" _by Owl City

* * *

Jack Frost was many things: a 'jack of all trades', so to speak. Some saw him as a troublemaker, a nuisance, a young, clueless spirit who was a waste of space and energy. Others maintained the viewpoint that Jack Frost was far from a common trickster, that he was also a warrior with a mind as sharp as a steel sword and a cruel streak that was wider and deeper than a glacier, that he was fierce fighter who should be taken seriously, for he wouldn't hesitate to seriously injure or even kill.

Neither of these two viewpoints were strictly wrong, nor were they entirely correct. No, if you wanted an accurate description of the complex personality that was Jack Frost, you would need to hail to the select few that formed his entourage of friends, the handful of spirits who had seen him both at his best and at his worst, the tiny subset of people whom he trusted and who trusted him back. These spirits claimed that he was all these and more, a special combination of reckless prankster, calculating fighter, naive child, and cynical adult. Jack Frost was a living paradox, a medley of conflicting personalities that shouldn't exist in a single person but somehow, inexplicably, _did_ , and this alone was enough to make him an unpredictable and potentially very dangerous individual. His entire demeanor and way of thinking could change at an instant's notice, one moment a carefree teenager, the next a shrewd and crafty soldier, and oftentimes it was hard to judge what exactly would tip the balance between the two.

Currently, however, the scales were heavily tipped in favor of 'rebellious, moping teen'. Jack was troubled, which was admittedly a rare occurrence, and as such he was commemorating this event by sulking at the top of a very large pine tree.

There were several reasons why he was sulking. Some unforeseen hiccups had occurred at the Winter Court that delayed some of the storms that had been scheduled, and it was going to be pure torture trying to sort out the whole mess and restore balance to the weather systems. On top of that, the fire spirits were on the brink of declaring war against the Winter Court, and as they usually did every few decades, General Winter and Old Man Winter were trying to incite the winter spirits to rebellion. All in all, this year's winter was going to be annoyingly eventful.

This was not the main reason for Jack's funk, however. No, the reason for his distress laid in the strange behavior of one of his fellow Guardians. More specifically, that of one E. Aster Bunnymund.

To put it plainly, Bunny was acting weird.

Well, to be fair, he always acted weird. He was a giant rabbit with an obsession for painting eggs, after all. There was very little about Bunnymund that could be called normal, least of all his behavior.

But, all things considered, he was acting stranger than usual. Jack would be the first to admit that he and the lagomorph did not share anything resembling close friendship. Mutual tolerance, perhaps, an agreement not to beat each other up, but not friendship, and definitely not anything approaching a brotherly relationship. That bridge had been burned long before either of them had known there even _was_ a bridge to burn, and to mend the wounds that they had caused each other would be well nigh impossible.

Imagine, then, Jack's surprise when Bunny invited him to come help paint eggs _in his Warren._

It was, to say the least, flabbergasting. Bunny _hated_ Jack. Bunny _didn't trust_ Jack. Bunny believed that Jack was an irresponsible, selfish brat who didn't deserve to _exist,_ let alone be a Guardian or have believers. Jack was the opposite of everything that Bunny stood for, providing destruction instead of beauty, death instead of life, cold instead of warmth, and pain instead of comfort. They were simply too different to get along with each other, so much that they hadn't even bothered to _try_ to be friends.

Now, though, Bunny was trying to turn the tables, and Jack wasn't so sure how to feel about that.

Sure, having Bunny hate him was painful. Jack had enough people who despised him, knew enough spirits who wanted to wipe him from the face of the earth, and the last thing he needed was to be forced to constantly interact with such a spirit. When the two fought and bickered, exchanging sharp barbs and cruel taunts, Bunny's words honestly _hurt,_ and oftentimes it was only the vicious desire to harm Bunny back, to dish out pain in the same way that it had been dealt to him, that kept Jack from faltering in the middle of such a spat.

But these altercations with Bunny, these constant outpours of hate from either side, were at least _predictable._ Jack knew exactly what would happen and how he would be hurt, knew precisely how much pain would be dealt on either side. He knew what to expect, at least, which was more than could be said for the current state of affairs.

...Just what was Bunny playing at? Did he honestly want to fix what was wrong, to heal old hurts and repair something that was long broken? Or was this simply another trick, another attempt to lure Jack into a sense of false security, a cruel joke that would allow Jack to hope for a few, blinding seconds before reality set in and his dreams crashed in the dust? The uncertainty of the situation, the lack of control over what was happening, was enough to drive Jack ballistic.

At least before, he was familiar with how much he would suffer, but the way things were going...if Bunny's game was to get Jack to trust him, only to break that trust, Jack wasn't sure how long it would take him to recover, if he could recover at all. It wouldn't be the first time someone betrayed him, and there were only so many times he could break before he shattered.

On the other hand, if Bunny was being sincere, that he would doubtless be hurt by Jack's refusal. Not that Jack really cared before whether Bunny got hurt or not, but that was _before,_ when Bunny loathed him, and Jack didn't usually waste time trying to care about people who would gladly see him dead. If Bunny was earnest, and genuinely wanted to bridge the gap between them, then that changed matters a great deal.

It was a complicated situation, and one which Jack didn't know how to handle. Although his every instinct was yelling at him to back away, to keep Bunny out, to not let him or any of the other Guardians get close, some traitorous part of his mind still _hoped_ that somehow this mess could be fixed.

Jack glared at a neighboring tree, and sighed. All this circular reasoning was getting him absolutely nowhere. Unless he wanted to spend the next several decades in this tree and still not come to a decision, he was going to have to pick a course of action and stick with it.

Which decision should he make, however? Should he make the safe decision, the responsible choice to remain distant from Bunny? Or should he take a risk, trusting to luck and fate to weather him through the storm unharmed?

As stated before, Jack was in a 'reckless teenager' phase, his mind a confused medley of thoughts and random urges. Thus, it was perhaps to be expected that suddenly, on an impulse, he mentally shrugged with an unspoken 'why the hell not?' and decide to trust Bunnymund just this once. Impulsiveness was a crucial part of Jack's personality, after all, and many times this tendency has acted to his detriment.

This time, however, he felt reasonably certain that things would turn out just fine.

After all, what was the worst that could happen?

* * *

Boredom, apparently, was the worst that could happen.

Jack hissed in irritation for the umpteenth time, and contemplated throwing a snowball at Bunny's head. When the oversized rodent had suggested that Jack help paint eggs, Jack had thought that there was a small, infinitesimally _tiny_ chance he would actually _paint some eggs._

But, no. Apparently, Jack was a 'menace to society' and a 'spirit of mass destruction' (he hadn't _meant_ to freeze Bunny's dye river, it had just _happened),_ and had been consigned to simply watching from the sidelines as Bunny painted eggs, and painted eggs, and painted some more eggs. Which turned out to be an extremely boring activity, and left Jack wondering why he'd even bothered to show up at all.

"This is boring."

Bunny continued painting serenely, entirely immersed in his task as he painted under a willow tree that was so large, its branches were dragging on the ground. "Not my problem."

"It is your problem," Jack pointed out. "You dragged me here. It's your responsibility to entertain me."

"I didn't drag ya, I invited ya, ya dag. Ya came by yerself."

"Still, you invited me. The host is supposed to entertain the guests. It's a rule."

"Not in my Warren, it ain't. I don't have the time ta be all hospitable and accommodating. If yer bored, it's yer own problem."

Jack huffed. "You're boring."

There were a few moments of silence, during which Bunny continued to paint and Jack continued to be bored. Although the Warren was nice in its own way, and although he himself enjoyed the peace and quiet at times, Jack found the place to be a little _too_ quiet and orderly and proper. The Warren was neat and organized and perfect in every way, and as such was practically begging to have a little chaos and destruction spread within it. The urge to wreak havoc was a persistent itch underneath Jack's skin, and it was taking all of his self-control to not give in to temptation.

If only he wasn't so dismally _bored!_

With an exasperated sigh, Jack flopped on the ground and stared up sullenly through the branches of the willow, his gaze focused on the...ceiling? Sky? It was honestly hard to tell what exactly it was.

He wasn't sure how many minutes they stayed like this, Bunny painting and Jack sulking, but soon enough the quiet of the Warren was broken by the sound of stomping.

Jack turned his head to the side, and watched dully as one of the large stone golems that guarded the Warren wandered around a few dozen yards away. Idly, he found himself wondering how they worked; he couldn't sense any magic on them, no more than he could detect in a living being, but they were too sapient to be mere robots.

Suddenly determined to get to the bottom of this, Jack turned on his side, picked his staff up from the ground, and poked Bunny in the shoulder with the crook.

Bunny stoically ignored him.

"Hey, Bunny."

Silence. A poke.

"Bunny."

Silence. Another poke.

"Bunnybunnybunnybunnybunny-"

"Whaddaya want?"

Bunny sounded utterly fed up with life in general and Jack in particular, and Jack grinned. Annoying Bunny was _fun._

"How do your giant stone eggs work?"

Bunny blinked. Clearly, whatever he'd expected Jack to say certainly hadn't been that. He recovered quickly enough, though, and eyed Jack with a stern glare. "Magic, of course. What else?"

Jack frowned in thought. "That can't be right. I can't sense any magic on them."

Bunny rolled his eyes, as if Jack was the stupidest spirit to have ever been born. "'Course ya don't, mate. It's life magic. Ya can't distinguish between the life magic of an animated pile of rock and normal life. There's no difference, 'cept in the origin of the life itself."

"Life magic?"

Jack sounded confused, and for the first time, Bunny looked up from his painting, a frown on his face, only to be faced with Jack's perplexed expression. Had he really neglected to tell Jack about his powers?

"Yeah. Life. I'm not just the Guardian of Hope, mate, I'm also the Guardian of Life."

"Huh. And that means what, exactly?"

Bunny smirked, already anticipating Jack's surprised expression. "Well, fer one thing, I was the one who created life on this planet of yers."

Jack did not fail to disappoint, eyes becoming as wide as saucers as he stared at the lagomorph. "Holy...that means you're...how old, exactly?"

"Around five thousand million years, I'd reckon. Give or take."

Jack looked absolutely flabbergasted, and Bunny had to struggle to hide the grin that threatened to appear. It had been so long since he'd told someone else about himself, since he'd bothered to share pieces of his life with someone, that he'd almost forgotten what it was like to see the surprise and awe that came with knowing more about the grumpy, egg-obsessed Easter bunny.

"Wow, that's, like, really old. How did you...I mean, were you always a spirit or something?"

"Naw, mate. Members of my species tended ta live a long time. I didn't become a spirit until several millennia ago."

"Members of your...species? What, you're not a rabbit?"

Bunny scoffed. "Of course not. I'm a Pooka, I'm from an entirely different planet. The similarity with rabbits is just a coincidence."

"...So you're an alien."

"Technically, ya lot are the aliens. I was here before there were humans. But yeah, I guess ya could call me an alien."

"...Wow."

Bunny chuckled at Jack's shocked expression, even as he dipped the paintbrush in the small bucket of lilac paint by his side. "Careful, mate. If the wind changes, yer face will stick that way."

The irony of the warning was not lost on Jack, who rolled his eyes sardonically. "Hardy har har, very funny."

The paintbrush swished over the surface of the egg. "Wasn't meant ta be. Pookas weren't big on humor."

"Why am I not surprised," there were a few moments of silence before Jack caught on to something strange in Bunny's sentence. "Wait a minute, 'weren't'?"

Bunny swallowed. "Yeah. Weren't. I'm the last of my kind, there aren't any more Pookas. Not that I know of, at least."

"...What happened to the others?"

"Pitch," Bunny responded shortly. "Pitch killed them."

"...Oh."

Silence again, thought unlike before it was vastly more awkward, as Bunny steadfastly painted and Jack struggled to find something to say. Finally, the winter spirit settled on two words that he was used to saying. "I'm sorry."

"Yer not the one who killed them, mate."

"Still, I'm sorry."

The statement earned a sharply inquisitive look from Bunny, but Jack didn't bother to elaborate, instead going back to staring up at the ceiling/sky as he pondered that Easter long ago. He'd been so close then, so close to accepting Pitch's offer, so close to renouncing all he stood for in exchange for a friend. He was still ashamed of himself, still contrite about his momentary weakness, and the knowledge that he'd been _this_ close to siding with the very spirit who'd murdered Bunny's entire species just made the guilt _that_ much worse.

Just when his musing was starting to take a rather depressing turn, Jack was startled by the feel of something small and light hitting him in the shoulder. Surprised, he lifted his head, only to receive another twig to the face, an occurrence which caused a frown to mar his pale face.

Once he was sure that he had the younger Guardian's attention, Bunny stopped throwing twigs at him, instead rolling his green eyes. "C'mon, stop sulking and help me paint some eggs."

It took a few moments for Jack to fully grasp what Bunny was saying, but once he did, a grin replaced the frown. "You sure about that, Cottontail? I'm not exactly much of a painter."

"Yeah, I'm sure. Just don't freeze anything and she'll be apples."

Just don't freeze anything. Jack tilted his head to one side, and considered. Yeah, he could do that, he had pretty good control if he focused properly.

"Okay, Kangaroo, you're on."

After all, what was the worst that could happen?

* * *

Although Jack was an artist, master of the intricate frost and the detailed snowflake, paint was definitely _not_ his medium. At least, not at first.

It wasn't that he disliked painting itself. He found the rhythmic swishing of the brush to be calming and relaxing. Unfortunately, though, asking Jack Frost to paint was very much like asking a writer who had never drawn in their life to start painting a picture: you were only asking for disaster. Skill in one artistic medium did not automatically mean skill in a totally different medium, and Jack's case was no exception.

It was therefore not unexpected for Jack's first few attempts to mildly resemble the artwork of a terminally clumsy and confused owl. A remarkably apt comparison, considering that owls happened to be colorblind.

Little by little, however, he slowly improved. Bunny's paint wasn't like the ordinary kind, and seemed to be made to be as easy and efficient to handle as possible. It dried as soon as it touched the surface of the egg, therefore minimizing the chances of the paint smudging, and some kind of magic in the brushes made it extremely easy to draw what should be impossibly thin lines, thus enabling him to add quite a bit of detail to his drawings.

As such, it wasn't long before he moved on from solid color eggs to simple patterns, and from simple patterns to…

...fractals. Simple fractals, yes (after all, it was difficult to paint something as complicated as a Mandelbrot set on a surface as small as an egg), but still. Fractals.

Well, perhaps it was to be expected. After all, Jack worked with fractals every day of his life. Still, it was somewhat strange to see him paint triangle after minuscule triangle as he tried to render a copy of the Koch snowflake on the egg's shell.

So engrossed in his work was he, that he almost didn't notice when Bunny crept away under the pretext of getting a drink of water. So preoccupied was he, that he didn't detect Bunny's return at all. So absorbed, so consumed, so immersed was he, that he didn't notice the Pooka creeping next to him, a glass of water in one hand as, with the other paw, he moved to touch Jack's shoulder.

As such, when he felt the warmth of Bunny's paw on his shoulder, he was naturally somewhat spooked.

Now, to understand the cause for Jack's somewhat violent reaction, one must first examine his past. Throughout the three centuries of his life, Jack had been attacked, betrayed, ambushed innumerable times. He was all too familiar with other spirits sneaking up on him as they tried to finish him off, for there were many who would pay an exorbitant price to see the Suzerain of Winter dead and buried.

As such, he had been conditioned to react precipitately and vehemently to anything even remotely resembling an assault on his person. "Shoot first and ask questions later," was the mantra, and it was one that had saved his life many times before.

So, when Bunny frightened him, Jack responded by tossing the egg and paintbrush aside, picking up his staff, and twisting around to throw a bolt of winter magic at Bunny, all before he even realized who or what startled him in the first place.

Bunny was a highly skilled warrior, swift of brain and body. As such, he rapidly ducked, the bright blue flash missing him by a hairbreadth, instead flying over his shoulder…

…and hitting the willow tree.

The willow tree, while old and strong, didn't stand a chance against the powers of winter. With a deathly crackle, it froze, wilted, and died, leaves falling pathetically to the ground in a shower of betrayal and broken promises.

The two Guardians stared at the (by now very dead) tree, one of them sporting a shocked and horrified expression, while the other's face was quickly morphing into an emotion remarkably and alarmingly like anger. Swallowing nervously, Jack made as if to fly away, only to be abruptly pulled out of the air by a furry paw grasping at his hood and yanking him down to the ground, the harsh treatment prompting a surprised cry from the younger spirit.

The resulting yell from the lagomorph was to be expected, yet it still made Jack flinch. "What the _hell,_ mate!"

"I'm sorry!" he yelped, trying desperately to get Bunny to let go of his hoodie. "I'm sorry, okay, I didn't mean to-"

"I told ya not ta freeze anything!"

"I already said I'm sorry! Besides, you were the one who startled me!"

"I tapped ya on the shoulder, mate, I didn't _stab_ ya in the _throat!_ Honestly, what was I thinking, of course ya'd pull something like this-"

"It wasn't on purpose!"

"I don't care if it was on purpose or not, it shouldn't have happened in the first place!"

Jack trashed, and finally managed to break free of Bunny's grip. "You can't just sneak up on someone and expect them not to react!"

"I didn't expect ya ta kill my bloody tree, mate! I thought ya had more self-control than that, but clearly I was wrong."

That comment stung. "I have self-control."

"Then why can't ya prove it by not destroying everything in yer path? Crikey, mate, I'm _obliged_ ta let ya inside my Warren, don't make this more difficult than it has ta be!"

Jack froze, muscles locking in place as the full meaning of Bunny's words made itself clear to him.

...Obliged.

Obliged.

 _Obliged._

Bunny hadn't let him into his Warren of his own free will. Instead, Bunny had been _obliged_ to let him in. _Obliged,_ because of _course_ Bunny wouldn't want someone like Jack, stupid, reckless, destructive Jack Frost, into his precious Warren. No, he had to be _obliged_ to do it.

And, horrifyingly enough, it made sense. After all, why would Bunny, Guardian of Life and Envoy of Spring, want to even be in the same _room_ with the very spirit who shepherded winter and death alike? Why would Bunny want to accommodate with a low-life, a pariah, a spirit who was hated by all and loved by none? It made _sense_ that Bunny would need to be forced to deal with Jack. There was no way in hell that any of this had been a voluntary move on Bunny's part.

Somehow, this fact caused Jack's anger to boil over, and himself to lose his precarious control over his own emotions. Before he even realized it, he was speaking, voice suddenly high and cold and sharp and fractured, like ice breaking on sharp rocks. _"Obliged,_ huh?"

Bunny was quickly becoming aware of the fact that he had just said something very, very stupid. "Wait, no, mate, that wasn't what I meant-"

Oh no. No, no, no. Bunny hadn't listened when Jack tried to apologize for freezing the tree, so Jack sure as hell wasn't going to let Bunny talk his way out of this one. _"Obliged,_ huh? Gee, I wonder what or who had _obliged_ the grumpy Easter Kangaroo to let his worst enemy into his Warren? Let me guess, it was Tooth who _obliged_ you to do it, wasn't it?"

"I don't see ya as an enemy, mate," retorted Bunny feebly, but his flinch when Jack mentioned Tooth's name betrayed him. Jack grinned at Bunny's momentary weakness, a feral, bitter, cutting smile that was nothing like his usual one, a dangerous flash of the teeth that made Bunny wince again and stare at the Guardian of Fun in trepidation.

With growing agitation, the Pooka noted the sudden harshness of Jack's voice, the blankness of his gaze, the rigidity of his posture. Whoever this was, this was no longer the happy-go-lucky Jack Frost that Bunny knew. This was a cold, caustic, harsh spirit, a resentful young man with a mind and temper as sharp as ice shards. _This_ Jack was jagged, brittle, unfeeling, and dangerous in his unpredictability. This Jack Frost was, in short, downright alarming, and caused shivers to go up Bunny's spine.

As such, he didn't dare to interrupt when Jack spoke, the teenager's voice like ice cracking underfoot. "Well, I certainly wouldn't want to infringe further on your _gracious_ hospitality, Bunny. After all, it must be _terribly_ difficult for a spring spirit such as you to deal with a winter spirit like myself. So, in the interests of politeness, I'm afraid I must be going."

Bunny opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by a shark-toothed smile from Jack, a mocking smirk that spoke of cruelty and pain. With a disdainful gesture, Jack Frost turned on his heel and began walking away.

Bunny let him leave, watching numbly as Jack Frost vanished between the trees.

* * *

Kehaar was old, older than the mountains, older than the sea, older than the deserts. Indeed, the only thing on this Earth that was older than him was his master, E. Aster Bunnymund himself.

Kehaar had been the first of many, the first of the egg golems, the first of the creatures that lived and died to protect their master. He had helped his master shape the Earth, had assisted him with creating mountains and oceans, had aided him in bringing the glory that was Life to the barren emptiness of the Earth. Kehaar had been there since the beginning, and would remain until the end.

Kehaar was also entirely unique from his brothers and sisters, and not in a good way.

Emotions can influence and shape magic, sometimes twisting it into something you didn't want or need. What was once a perfectly harmless spell could turn into the worst of curses, if the caster happened to be angry or depressed enough during the casting.

When E. Aster Bunnymund created Kehaar, the first of the egg golems, he had still been heartbroken and bitter over the loss of his people, and this had shaped the life magic, corrupting it so that loathing and sorrow formed an essential part of it. As such, Kehaar was a being made of pure hatred and anguish, formed of the hundreds of dark emotions that had plagued his maker, and as such, he was a treacherous being.

Oh, he would always remain loyal to his master, until the end of time itself, but sometimes Kehaar did bad, _bad_ things in order to please his maker. Sometimes, when someone upset the last of the Pookas and Bunnymund refused to get revenge (because he was too foolish, too kind-hearted, too merciful, and Kehaar had to protect him from himself, he _had_ to), Kehaar would bring about justice in his own way. And if sometimes, blood was shed or a life was lost...well, so long as it was to protect his creator, it was all right. All Kehaar had to do was make sure that Bunnymund didn't find out, after all.

There was, however, one spirit with which Kehaar hadn't settled the score, one constant thorn in his master's side which he hadn't eliminated.

That thorn was Jack Frost.

Kehaar _despised_ Jack Frost.

Jack Frost was everything that E. Aster Bunnymund was not. Flighty, irresponsible, moronic, a killer, the winter spirit's mere presence was an insult to everything that Bunnymund stood for. Moreover, the winter spirit seemed incapable of understanding that he wasn't _wanted,_ wasn't _needed,_ instead continuing to plague his elders and betters and drive them to distraction. It was enough to make Kehaar's nonexistent blood boil, and oftentimes the egg golem wondered how Bunnymund managed to stand the annoying, pesky spirit.

Well, no longer. If everything went according to plan, E. Aster Bunnymund would never again have to deal with the irritation that was Jack Frost. Kehaar would protect his master, would level the playing field as he had done so many times before, would stamp out Jack Frost until he was no more than dust underneath his stone feet.

Slowly, like a snake stalking its prey, the egg golem descended upon the unsuspecting winter spirit.

* * *

Jack was justifiably somewhat miffed, both at Bunny and himself. Bunny for lying to him, for giving him false hope (and oh, wasn't that irony at its finest), and himself for believing the lies, for allowing himself to be tricked, for letting the situation get this far. He'd been an idiot to even entertain the possibility of Bunny being earnest, of the invitation being more than the performing of some _chore._

Jack huffed as he stomped through the forest. Obliged. The word sounded bitter to his ears, ringing of falsehood and responsibilities and insincerity, and reminding him that Bunny had never wanted to be friends with him in the first place. No, all of Bunny's behavior up to now could be adequately explained by the fact that he'd been _obliged_ (Jack sneered at the word) to do it.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, really. Spring spirits always hated winter spirits, it was the way of the world. For him to have believed, however faintly, that Bunny would be any different…

...He _must_ have been temporarily insane at the time, that was sure. Probably one too many blizzards, or maybe it had been that eggnog of North's. Come to think of it, he'd thought it tasted a little strange-

 _Thud._

The ground trembled underfoot, as if from an earthquake, and Jack could tell that the epicenter of the vibrations lay right behind him. Swiftly raising his staff, he turned around…

...Only to be faced with the sight of a massive, stone foot bearing down on him.

* * *

The first scream echoed throughout a large portion of the Warren, a sound of pure pain and terror, a horrible cry that was only ever made by creatures in mortal agony. It was accompanied by the ghastly sound of bones breaking, like large matchsticks being snapped in two, and the combination was concerning enough to immediately capture Bunny's attention.

Worryingly enough, there was no second scream, meaning that whoever had made that cry was probably unconscious, or dead.

Briefly, Bunny's thoughts turned to Jack. Was it he who had made that sound? Had he hurt himself? Was he being ambushed? Tortured, perhaps, under Bunny's very nose?

The possibility was troubling, but also rather unlikely. No one could have gone past the wards, after all, not without Bunny's explicit permission. After the incident with Pitch's Nightmares, he doubted he would ever make that mistake again.

In addition, it was impossible for anyone within the Warren itself to attack Jack. Certainly, Jack was annoying, but he was a fellow Guardian, and Bunny would never instruct one of his sentinels or googies to hurt him, not even after the argument they had that day.

Unless…

 _Kehaar._

The thought was enough to make him drop what he was doing and run like mad towards the source of the awful shriek. He knew all too well how unbalanced and prejudiced Kehaar was (especially towards winter spirits, especially towards Jack), and how determined the deranged golem was to destroy everything and everyone that threatened Bunny, but he'd never thought that Kehaar would have the audacity to harm a Guardian.

It appears he'd been wrong, through. Today's fight with Jack must have been the breaking point, the event that spurred Kehaar on. He knew he should have destroyed Kehaar before this, knew he should have crushed the twisted life he'd managed to create, but he'd always found it difficult to kill living things. It went against his nature and his purpose.

Now, though, he was wishing that he'd been stronger, that he'd been able to muster the courage to exterminate Kehaar. Because of his mercifulness, his _weakness,_ Jack was alone, hurt, and possibly dead.

Because of him, Jack could die, and the thought was remarkably _terrifying._

He'd never thought he'd cared about the winter spirit. Jack Frost was an annoyance, a constant thorn in his side that he resented, a pest that continuously aggravated him. Moreover, he was everything that Bunny was not, their personalities and powers utterly incompatible, the only common trait between them being their excessive stubbornness. By all rights, they should hate each other with a passion.

But...painting eggs with Jack had been fun, to be honest, and so had been the talk. He never thought he could maintain a civil conversation with Jack Frost of all people, but it turned out he was wrong, and the change from the constant arguing was nice.

Maybe Tooth, bothersome Tooth with her half-baked schemes and her alarmingly sharp swords, had a point. Maybe he and Jack could be friends.

Now, though, he had to save Jack from the monster he himself had breathed life into.

* * *

Jack was dying.

This was not in itself a particularly unusual occurrence. There were, after all, a remarkably large number of people who wanted to see Jack dead, and as a result he'd been forced to endue numerous attempts on his life, which in turn led to him spending a rather large amount of time either injured, unconscious, or on the brink of death. On one memorable occasion, he'd been thrown to the ground before having a sword thrust through his midsection, pinning him down to the sandy ground like a butterfly to a card. The fact that this had happened in the Gobi desert, and that a sandstorm had tried to bury him in the middle of his struggles for freedom, just made the whole experience _that_ much worse.

This time, however, was especially notable, if only because he was currently being crushed to death by one of Bunny's egg golems, which was decidedly not the way he'd envisioned himself to go. He would have laughed at the irony of it all if his shattered ribs weren't currently being squeezed out of his body via his mouth. As it was, though, all he managed was a wet cough, blood dribbling pathetically from the corner of his mouth.

The massive foot on his chest shifted, further twisting and snapping the frail bones, and Jack would have screamed in agony if he could. It hurt like hell, his bones crunching in his chest, digging into his insides and puncturing his ribs. He wished he could fall unconscious already, but adrenaline and fear were keeping him awake and alert, much to his dismay.

He really should get out of this situation somehow. Being stepped on couldn't be good for his back, or any part of him really.

Slowly, he turned his head, dull blue gaze falling on the sight of his staff lying a few inches away from him. Half-delirious from the pain, he reached out for the aged piece of wood, bloodstained fingers wrapping weakly around the shaft of the weapon as he lifted it off the ground. Then, he shifted his grip so that the curved end of the staff was pointed straight at the golem, and fired.

There was a blinding flash of blue-white light as a blast of winter magic was shot at the golem, knocking it back slightly and coating its surface with a thick layer of frost and ice. The pressure on Jack's chest increased abruptly and painfully as the golem's foot dug into him, but it soon lightened as the giant stone creature stumbled back, disoriented from the blast, the ground trembling underneath its feet.

Not for the first time, Jack found himself wondering at the sheer _size_ of the creature. It was easily three or four times as large as the regular sentinels, why on Earth would Bunny ever have felt the need to create a warrior egg this damn _big?_

And heavy. Ow. Everything hurt.

Speaking of which, he should probably get out of here before that thing regained its senses.

Groaning, the half-unconscious winter spirit tried to sit up, but only made it halfway before collapsing back to the ground, breathing heavily through grit teeth as he stubbornly fought the urge to scream. Moon, but it _hurt,_ he couldn't even _breathe_ without feeling like his own shattered ribs were trying to stab him through the heart, how was he supposed to get out of this place?

In his peripheral vision, the winter spirit noticed the golem heading towards him again, and this sight was enough to prompt him to make another attempt at getting up, with the same result. Panic began to leak in through the pain-induced fog in his mind when he realized that no, he couldn't leave, couldn't get away, couldn't escape from the danger bearing down on him.

As Kehaar neared, Jack's struggles intensified, the winter spirit nearly whimpering as he writhed in a pool of his own blood, trying frantically to put as much distance as possible between himself and the approaching sentinel. His bloodstained hands clutched fervently at the grass as he tried and failed to drag himself away, only succeeding in staining the green ground a dull red.

Why couldn't he get away? He'd _always_ been able to get away. Even in that incident with the Gobi desert and the sword he'd been able to get away. Why couldn't he get away now?

Distantly, he was aware of the wind buffeting around him, trying vainly to push back the golem. Briefly, he considered flying out of there, but before he could ask the wind to take him away, he felt himself falling unconsciousness, the blood loss finally getting to him.

 _No!_

Black spots were dancing erratically across his vision, and he himself was rapidly losing his grip on reality, his mind and senses becoming hazy and uncooperative. He could no longer hear the stomping of the sentinel's feet against the ground, could barely feel the vibrations of the earth underneath him as the thing grew ever nearer.

He would die here, he realized dimly. The golem was magical, after all, filled with magic that was entirely opposite to his own. He would die here, and become nothing more than a crumpled, mangled shell.

Perhaps flowers would grow on his corpse. The grim thought made him smile ever so slightly. Imagine, the body of a spirit of winter, of cold and death, serving as fertilizer for flowers, for new life. It was depressingly ironic-

Was that yelling he was hearing?

* * *

"What the hell do ya think yer doing?!"

E. Aster Bunnymund was angry.

No, scratch that, he was bloody _furious,_ both at himself and at Kehaar. None of this should have happened, Jack should never have been hurt, yet here they were now, with Bunny glaring at a demented golem while Jack slowly expired in a pool of dark red blood.

He couldn't bring himself to look at the mauled, wrecked figure on the ground, instead opting to glower at the one responsible as he placed himself between the sentinel and Jack. His ears flattened down to his head in consternation when he heard the mutilated winter spirit give a small, distressed whimper.

Kehaar, for his part, looked unrepentant, or at least as unrepentant as a stone egg could look. Bunny could practically feel the hate pouring off the golem, hate directed at Jack and winter spirits and all things winter, and the feeling was enough to make Bunny shiver. Whatever hope he'd had that Kehaar would ever reform was now irrecoverably crushed. He would only harm the world by allowing Kehaar to live.

His face settling into an expression of grim determination, Bunny unsheathed his boomerangs and charged the sentinel.

* * *

Within a few minutes, Kehaar was nothing more than a lifeless pile of rock.

Bunny was sorrowful, although he tried to convince himself that it was all for the best. Kehaar had, after all, been slated for destruction from the moment of his birth. It had to happen, all these years he'd only been delaying the inevitable.

He still wished he could have done something, however. Killing Kehaar, destroying life he'd created, had been excruciatingly painful. It had to be done, though, and at least Jack would not be hurt further.

Jack…

The lagomorph sighed as he turned towards the bloody mess that was Jack Frost, wincing in sympathy as his green eyes took in the extent of the damage. His ribs were splintered and snapped, stabbing his crushed torso from the inside and mangling his organs. It was honestly a miracle that he was still breathing, however faintly.

Now looking profoundly saddened and guilty, the Pooka sheathed his boomerangs before bending down and gently picking Jack up, doing his best to avoid further jarring the teen's smashed ribs. He cringed when Jack whined in agony, but continued, knowing that he had to treat Jack's injuries as soon as possible if he didn't want Jack to die.

Die…

The thought made Bunny hasten to his home, to a cave in a rock-face which harbored his sleeping quarters, his library, his kitchen, and, most importantly, his infirmary. He couldn't seem to reach the cave fast enough, feet thumping against the ground as he tried to run as quickly as possible while minimizing the damage that the rough method of transport would inflict on the winter spirit bundled in his arms.

Despite his best efforts, however, Jack was whimpering almost constantly by the time they reached the infirmary, and Bunny was nearly beside himself with worry and guilt. He steeled himself, however, placing Jack on a cot before reaching for his medical supplies.

It was time for him to fix his friend.

* * *

When Jack awoke, he felt as if his chest was on fire.

He groaned groggily as he pried his eyes open, and was momentarily confused by the change in his surroundings. Hadn't he been alone in a clearing, mewling pathetically as he lay dying? What was he doing in a bed in this cave?

Then the pain caught up with him, and he was curling in on himself, breathing raggedly as he resisted the urge to thrash, cry out, anything. Whoever had brought him to this place had already seen him at his weakest, at his most vulnerable, and he wanted to somehow put together the pieces of his broken pride, even if it required something as futile as not allowing himself the luxury of screaming. He knew deep down that it was stupid and pointless, but he could delude himself into thinking otherwise if it made him feel better.

It seemed he wasn't capable of doing even that, however, a strangled cry of pain making itself heard when the burning in his chest suddenly intensified. The sound wasn't particularly loud, but it was enough for the door to the room to snap open, allowing a harried Pooka into the room.

"Easy, mate. Lie straight, you'll hurt yer ribs again that way."

Jack gritted his teeth as Bunny helped him straighten out. As petty as it may seem, the Pooka was the absolute last person Jack wanted to see right now. Even Pitch would have been more welcome at this point.

He tried to protest, tried to lift his head and snarl at Bunny to leave, but all he managed was a guttural rasp when his abused throat tried and failed to work properly. Irritatingly enough, the Pooka seemed to interpret the noise as some kind of request, and instead of leaving, he grabbed a glass of water from the night-table by the bed and held it to Jack's lips.

Winter spirits didn't strictly need food, but they _had_ to have water, as they tended to dehydrate easily and could fall into a coma from lack of water. As such, though Jack dearly wanted to grab the glass and throw it in Bunny's furry face, his instincts urged him to drink the water. And drink he did, though he made sure to glare at the Pooka during the process.

Bunny either didn't see or ignored the glare, focusing instead on helping Jack to drink. Once the glass was empty, he placed it back on the wooden night-table.

The water had done wonders for Jack's throat, removing the pain and raspiness from his vocal cords, and he made sure to take full advantage of that, speaking quietly and breathily in an attempt to prevent his ribs from shifting. "What are you doing?"

Bunny gave him a funny look. "Healing ya, mate. What else?"

Jack gave him a deadpan stare. "Well, considering that you sicced one of your golems on me, I didn't think you'd be all that eager to help me recover afterwards. That's not usually how attempted murder works."

Bunny flinched. "I didn't sic the sentinel on ya."

"Oh really?" Jack challenged. "Then who did?"

"Nobody. The sentinel sicced himself."

"Why do I find that hard to believe?"

Bunny gritted his teeth and restrained himself from making a cutting comment. "I'm serious, mate. The sentinel who attacked ya...he was insane. Always has been, in fact."

"Why did you keep him, then?"

"...It's difficult for me ta destroy life that I created. Kinda feels like I'm ripping my own heart outta my chest. I knew I'd have ta destroy him eventually, but I kept putting it off...I never thought he'd go so far as ta hurt a Guardian, though. I'm sorry, mate."

"...Ah."

There was a brief, awkward silence, during which Bunny stared at the ground and Jack fiddled with the blankets. At last, though, Jack became irritated with the sudden quietude, and began trying to clamber out of bed, determined to leave at once.

Bunny, naturally, didn't like that one bit. "What do ya think yer doing?"

"Leaving, of course. Hey, do you know where my staff is?"

"Ya can't leave yet, Frosty, yer wounds aren't healed!"

"As _touching_ as your concern is, I'm _fine,_ Kangaroo," sneered Jack, as he began hauling himself out of bed.

Bunny was quick to shove him back down against the pillows. "No, ya aren't. Yer not leaving until I say ya can, and that's final. Yer still injured, and I'm not letting ya run around until I'm sure that yer fully recovered."

Although it was certainly childish, Jack couldn't stop himself from making a jab. "Why? Is it because you're _obliged_ to take care of me, 'Roo?"

"No. It's because I care about ya, ya drongo."

…

"You must be joking."

"I'm not, Jack."

"...But...Why? What's in it for you?"

Bunny looked surprised at the question. "Why should there be something in it for me?"

"Most people don't usually help me unless they're trying to get something out of it, Cottontail. I'm not exactly very popular in the spirit world."

Bunny swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Well, I'm not most people. I'm helping ya because I want ta help ya. That's it. No strings attached."

"...You serious?"

"Yes."

"Huh."

…

"Sorry for freezing your tree, by the way."

"Don't worry about it, mate. I'm also sorry, fer saying that rot about being obliged ta help ya. It's not true."

"Apology accepted."

…

"You're still boring, though."

 _"Jack!"_

* * *

 **A/N: Koch snowflake and Mandelbrot set are fractals. Look them up, they're cool.**

 **Also, this is very long, so there might be errors I have missed. Please let me know if you find any. Also, stupid ending is stupid, I apologize. I couldn't figure out how to end this effing monster of a one-shot.**

 **Okay, now for the semi-important announcement:**

 **I have taken the executive decision to start taking prompts.**

 **But wait! Before you start flailing and typing like mad-men, I need you to read the following rules for prompts:**

 **1. _Just because you give me a prompt does not mean I'm required to fill/use it._ I'm the author, I decide if I want to use your prompt, or combine it with another prompt, or twist it, or bend it, or even just do my own thing entirely. I'm the writer, I make the decisions. Deal with it.**

 **2. _Prompts cannot be rated above a T, contain your own OCs, or somehow involve a specific relationship/pairing._ No discussions.**

 **3. _Prompts must contain Jack in some way._ I'm sorry, but this is a collection centered around _Jack specifically_ saying the "I'm fine" line, and if there's no Jack in the prompt, I can't follow the rule. So please make an effort to somehow involve Jack in the prompt.**

 **And that's it! Have fun!**

 **(Questions? PM me)**

 **(Techie out.)**


	22. Hairline Fractures

**A/N: This is something short and crappy that I wrote because I _can._ And because I'm depressed. Ow, life hurts.**

 **Also, dudes, listen: I know you're eager, but please stop asking me when I'm going to continue Sol/Restraint/Deadity, because I have no way to answer that question. I will continue them when I feel comfortable doing so, and when I'm reasonably certain I can do so without churning out garbage instead. Your demands that I update these arcs will only stress me out more and prevent me from actually continuing them (which I want to do, I'm not forgetting them, I promise). I'm sorry it's taking such a long time and I understand that you are getting a little impatient, but you need to understand that I'm doing my best, and that badgering me is counterproductive and harmful to my writing process as a whole.  
**

 **One last thing: Thank you for the prompts you have given me. I'm still accepting prompts, so if any of you have more to give, feel free to submit them. I'd love to read them.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

 _"The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly."_ — F. Scott Fitzgerald

* * *

Jack feels tired.

Not the good tired, the tired that comes from hours of hard physical work, or long studying, or any other productive and energy-sapping activity. No, this is the tired that you feel even minutes after waking up, the exhaustion that drags at your mind but left your body untouched, the empty fatigue that prevents you from doing anything worthwhile and that all the rest and sleep in the world can't obliterate. It is the weariness that walks hand-in-hand with depression, that plagues you for days and nights until finally, _finally_ it goes away, only to eventually return later.

That is the tired that Jack feels. An endlessly drained feeling that leaves him empty and devoid of the spark of Joy and Fun he usually possesses. A gray, blank emotion that makes him want to curl up somewhere and hide away from the world.

Coincidentally, he is doing just that, crouching like a bird on top of some power-lines that are located three miles north of Nowhere. The power-lines run along the length of a small, insignificant country road, and occasionally a car drives down its length, all light and noise that contrasts sharply with the silence and darkness of night, that fights the shadows only to flicker out of sight like a dying candleflame when the vehicle rounds the bend a few meters away.

It is places like these that he normally seeks when he is feeling empty. Places that are peaceful in their solitude, but not oppressive, places where he can be near life and action without being a part of it. It is soothing to watch the cars whoosh by, almost relaxing even, and temporarily, he can forget the red stains splattered on his clothing and the long, unhealed cut running down his arm and drooling thick, glutinous blood.

For a moment, he forgets, and so the events of three weeks past no longer exist to him.

 _If a tree falls and there is no one to hear it, then does it make a sound?_

Reality can be a harsh and cruel being, however, ripping one from sweet fantasies and dragging one down to the level of cold, mundane facts. Though he is allowed to forget for a little while, he can't ignore the problem forever, and sooner or later he will be forced to face his demons.

Alone. As he always did. But no matter, he can handle it. He always handled it.

 _If something breaks, and no one notices, and it is fixed in the meantime, than was it ever broken at all?_

Absentmindedly, he trails his fingers over the wound on his arm, gaze still fixed on the passing cars, wincing slightly when he prods the wound too harshly for his body's liking. He knows he should fix it, knows he should frost it over and mend it and hide it and pretend it never existed, but he feels too tired to do so, too damn exhausted.

A part of him, the broken twisted part that is irreparably damaged by centuries of solitude and hardship, whispers to him that he _deserves_ the pain of an unhealed wound. He is quick to deny it, telling himself it was false, that he did his best, that he merits neither rebuke nor complaint for his actions. He did what he could to minimize the damages, even at the risk of losing his own life. And yet, his fingers still dig harshly into the wound, drawing a pained flinch from him, and he does not relent, not even when chilled blood stains his pale fingertips.

Deep down, no matter how he tries to convince himself otherwise, he knows he deserves the pain.

 _If you have no choice but to kill, no recourse but to destroy, than are you still a murderer?_

War is a ghastly thing, a terrible thing, something that rips people and families apart, that pits complete strangers against each other while ordaining that one should die at the hand of the other. War is a tragedy, a horrific twist of fate that toys with people's lives and leaves them to pick up the mangled pieces of their existence afterwards.

Today, Jack Frost has killed hundreds of spirits, all in the name of war.

He had no choice, of course. Killing is not something that comes to him naturally, no matter what everyone else says. He was obliged to participate in the bloodshed, to rally the Winter Court so they could defend themselves against the oncoming attack. As Suzerain of Winter, it is his responsibility to protect his people.

This knowledge fails to make him feel better, strangely.

 _If you have no choice but to do wrong, than are you still evil?_

Oh certainly, it is not the first time he has slain another. It is not the first (nor will it be the last) war that the Winter Court has weathered, and many a human besides has fallen victim to his blizzards over the years. But not to this extent, not to the point where he has lost count of the number of lives who fell on the wrong side of his sword, not to the point where he can no longer tell the exact number and instead has to resort to vague approximations.

A part of him feels irrationally guilty for not knowing. He should be mourning them, should carry every life lost like a scar carved in his heart, should regret every life he snuffed out of existence. He shouldn't be seeing them merely in the form of an abstract number; he should know each and every one of them, should know their names so he could brand them in his memory and remember them for the remainder of his life.

He shouldn't be passively allowing the memories to disappear, and yet he is too tired to resist.

 _If there is no one left to remember a life lost, than did that life ever exist in the first place?_

He will recover, however. Despite his best efforts, he will move on, slowly forgetting about the lives he extinguished, the deaths ascribed to his name. Despite the occasional minor setback, he will continue forward, inexorably forward, until the end of his pitiful existence, for it has never been in his nature to brood over one thing for long. He will neglect the past, like all people eventually do, until such a time as he will kill again and the cycle will recommence.

He is fine.

This too, fails to comfort him.

 _If you move on, putting the past behind yourself, are you forgetting?_

That is all right, however. He does not deserve comfort, does not merit pity. He is a killer, cold like the ice he wields so masterfully, and killers do not earn the right to be consoled. His inability to feel better is only karma doing its work, chipping away little by little at his heart until soon there will be nothing left.

 _If you kill, and kill, and kill again, do you eventually lose your heart?_

His fingers claw deeper at the wound, the blood spreading on his sleeve as he stares down at the cars roaring by, and no one cares. Not even himself, for he is past the point of caring, past the point of giving a solitary damn about his pathetic self.

He knows he is breaking, hairline cracks creeping along the surface of his soul, yet he deceives himself, telling himself that he is fine, that he will be all right. Lies, all lies, and yet lies are all he has left to fix what's broken and mend what's torn.

"I'm fine."

 _If you lie, and lie, and lie again, than do the lies eventually become the truth?_

* * *

He does not know how many hours he has stood on those power-lines, but by the time he returns to his senses, it is long past dawn and venturing into mid-morning.

He has work to do, he realizes. He must help the Winter Court recover from the blow that war has dealt. He must assist in the tallying of the dead, the repairs of the Winter Palace, and the digging of the graves.

Groaning, he stands, joints creaking from his hours of immobility. The gash on his arm is long clotted, frost and ice helping to close the injury, bloody frost ferns spread along his sleeve. Soon, the cut will vanish, as all lacerations do, even those which mar the heart and soul.

Just because one no longer sees or feels them, however, does not mean they were never there. Like ghosts, they will haunt him until the end, whenever that may be. He has resigned himself to this, though. He will always hurt, always feel pain, always suffer from the agony of some part of him long shattered.

That doesn't mean that anyone has to know, or even care, no matter how obvious his silent cries for help may be.

 _After all, if a tree falls and it makes no sound, than doesn't that mean that there was no one around to hear it?_

* * *

 **A/N:** **Yeah, short and stupid. But hey, I kind of like it anyways, so here you have it. Hope you liked.** _  
_

 **(Questions? PM me)**

 **(Techie out.)**


	23. Sol 6

**A/N:...Is this website finally working again?**

 **Yes?**

 **Good.**

 **Anyway, that aside, guess who got their inspiration back and was able to write the next part of "Sol"? That's, right, ladies and gentlemen, ME! I'm so happy, I'm a step closer to finishing this arc!**

 **Also, I'm still taking prompts.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

Sandy huffed in frustration from his place in the sky, staring down through the darkness at the bright city that he was currently gifting with dreams. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to focus properly on his job, to endow his creations with his usual spark of originality and light. Several cities ago he'd been forced to forgo personalized dreams entirely, instead spreading his dreamsand in a monotone sheet of featureless sand, his frazzled state preventing him from concentrating and requiring him to trust the dreamsand's recipients to create their own dreams.

It was seldom that such a thing happened. Sandy loved his work, always finding new things about it that fascinated him. Dreams were such an unpredictably captivating phenomenon, after all, and even their creator didn't know quite everything about the blissful fantasies he spread.

There was a very good reason, however, why he couldn't focus on his work, and that was because he was worried. Very worried, as a matter of fact.

This was not as rare an occurrence as you may think. For all his silence, the Sandman was actually a very perceptive being, his position on the sidelines allowing him an excellent outsider's view of the situation, whatever it may be. While his fellow Guardians mostly focused on the surface of a problem, Sandy looked at all the layers, puzzling out a chain of actions and reactions to find out just what was going on. If someone was acting strangely, for example, he didn't just dismiss the issue for as long as it didn't have consequences: he investigated _why_ the person was acting that way, _how_ it could be fixed, so that he could resolve the problem before it became one.

(At times, this trait of his was mildly frustrating, especially when he failed to see eye-to-eye with the other Guardians, but more than once he found this peculiarity of his to be remarkably useful)

As such, while his co-workers were blissfully ignorant of what was going on, he himself remained acutely aware of the anomaly that was Jack's present behavior. Jack was unusually skittish, his normal aura of confidence and calm replaced by a jittery panic that was just barely concealed underneath a mask of certainty and self-assurance. More than once, Sandy had seen him jump at loud noises or flinch when others yelled his name, and while the winter spirit had never been a fan of fire, now he seemed positively _scared_ of it, which was a new and concerning development. Jack was not one to cower in the face of his fears, instead opting to meet them head-on and battle them until he vanquished them, and for him to be so obviously _terrified_ of fire...well, it made Sandy uneasy, to say the least, and the occasional burns he'd noticed littering Jack's face, neck, or arms only served to worry him further.

And Sandy knew precisely whom to blame for Jack's recent and drastic change in behavior.

Ra.

It wasn't a terribly large leap in judgment, to be honest. Jack had been anxious around the sun god from the very start, avoiding him as much as possible, and Ra had made clear early on his utter hatred for Jack Frost and all he stood for. The two were destined to clash in one way or another, and when you added Ra's fiery temper and notoriously cruel methods to the mix, than you were guaranteed to have a disaster of the worst kind on your hands, with Jack coming out of the conflict the loser. Ra had never been a particularly sane or reasonable individual, and centuries without belief had only made his issues worse, his constant fear of losing his throne and status turning into all-out paranoia and obsession. Ra would do anything, absolutely anything, to keep his power and authority in the spirit world, and it was this which made him a very dangerous man.

Unfortunately, while this was agonizingly clear to Sandy, he was having a hard time convincing his fellow Guardians. Bunny and North had both told him not to worry so much, that he probably was imagining it, that Ra would never do something like this. Sandy disagreed, Ra knew no limits where his lust for power was concerned. It was obvious that somehow, the sun god was hurting Jack, why couldn't his friends see that?

If North and Bunny's reactions were irritating, however, than Tooth's was downright infuriating. Sandy had barely managed to get his point across before Tooth had turned indignant, all 'how can you accuse Ra of this' and 'Jack got you on his side somehow, didn't he?' That last comment in particular had troubled him, and yet when he'd tried to pry answers from the fairy, she'd remained stubbornly silent. An interesting and perturbing development, but one which Sandy could not afford to further dwell on at the moment.

It was plain that none of the Guardians would help him, and yet Sandy was unable to help on his own. Powerful as he was, he was no match for a god, even a weakened one, and confronting Ra would only end in tears and would worsen the situation. On the other hand, there was no way in hell that Sandy was going to let Jack suffer, alone and frightened.

It was a conundrum, and one which Sandy wasn't entirely sure he could solve. Yet solve it he must, if he wanted to help Jack, which he dearly wanted to do.

The little man stared down at the city beneath his dreamsand cloud, and sighed silently. He'd been wracking his brains for the past several hours, and was no closer to a solution than he was when he first started. Although he always tried to be hopeful no matter the circumstances, he was starting to think that it would be impossible to find an answer-

A voice whispered urgently at the edge of his subconscious.

While most of the Guardians were unable to hear the Wind, both Sandy and Jack could understand her with perfect clarity. Though they rarely spoke, their distanced relationship nothing like the close friendship that Jack shared with the elusive being, Sandy and Wind were still on excellent terms with one another, and although their conversations were often centuries apart, they were invariably of a cordial nature.

Lately, however, Wind had began to converse more frequently with the Sandman, sharing with him her concerns for her frosty charge. The two had fallen easily into the roles of protectors or sentinels, watching over the intelligent and calculating,yet occasionally reckless winter spirit that they both had the honor of calling their friend, and although the two had come close to suffering heart-attacks multiple times from Jack's more daring escapades, they both knew that they wouldn't trade their camaraderie with him for anything.

That said, tonight Wind seemed unusually anxious, buffeting the Sandman with her air currents, her own way of expressing urgency or panic. Once she had his attention, she was quick to relate everything she had seen, from the abuse Jack had endured, to Ra's attempts at blackmailing him, to Jack's determination to press charges against the sun god, to Ra's own successful corrupting of the Feather of Truth and his plan to turn the tables on Jack. The story was several minutes in the telling, but once she was finished, Sandy immediately ceased spreading dreams and began flying as fast as he could towards Egypt, face set in a determined frown.

The children of the world could survive for a little while without dreams. Preserving Jack's liberty, and possibly life, was far more important a task.

* * *

It was the morning of the trial, and the courtroom was filled to bursting with spirits of all kinds, though mostly Ra's fellow Egyptian Gods.

Ma'at's courtroom was structured very differently from those that you normally saw in action. While some elements remained the same, such as the presence of the judge, orderly, and stenographer, the Feather of Truth made an official jury and the participation of lawyers unnecessary, and the names of 'prosecution' and 'defendant' were more of a formality than anything else. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that this was a public hearing, there would likely only be Ma'at, Ra, and Jack in the courtroom, along with said orderly and stenographer.

Due to it being a public hearing, however, a large number of courtroom observers were present, their role merely consisting of watching the trial without actively contributing. To take a god such as Ra to court was a Big Deal in the spirit world, especially as Ra was no mere god, but the king of the Egyptian Gods, and as such many spirits were highly interested in viewing the proceedings.

Ma'at rose from her seat, addressing the courtroom at large. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Calling the case of Ra versus Jack Frost. Are both sides ready?"

Ma'at's voice was chilly and bitingly calm, like a freezing cold stream in midwinter. Although she wasn't speaking particularly loudly, her voice effortlessly filled the entire courtroom, with the ease of centuries upon centuries of experience speaking in a crowded room.

Jack was first to speak, rising from his seat behind his desk and inclining his head respectfully towards Ma'at, posture stiff and tense with nerves. "Ready for the prosecution, Your Honor."

Ra spoke next from across the room, voice oily smooth and formal. Although Ma'at was his daughter, familial ties paled in the face of performing justice, and in the Courtroom, the two might have been strangers for all that Ra's relationship to the judge counted towards his defense. "Ready for the defense, Your Honor."

Ma'at nodded, satisfied. "Good. Than we may proceed. The charges are as follows: Ra is accused by the prosecution of having committed assault, battery, and physical abuse against one Jack Frost, thus causing him moderate to severe physical and mental harm."

A chorus of discontented murmurs from the observers made itself heard, and Ma'at waited a moment for the chattering to abate, continuing once silence returned to the room. "This is a clear violation of the Universal Peace Treaty, as well as a blatant display of contempt towards our Code of Honor, which states, among other things, that we cannot use our power as deities to oppress spirits of lower castes. Due to the severity of the charges, if Ra were to be proven guilty, he would be incarcerated for a significant amount of time. If, however, he were to be acquitted, than Jack Frost would be guilty of slander and libel, and would be duly punished."

She gave everyone a moment to absorb this information, before continuing, "Now that I have impressed upon you all the gravity of this case, we may proceed. How does the defendant plea?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor," Ra responded, a hint of a smug smile adorning his face.

Ma'at raised one silver eyebrow, but did not comment. "May the Court Record make special note of the defendant's plea."

Jack, for his part, was both confused and slightly worried. It was obvious to him that Ra would be proven guilty, so why would the sun god bother to dispute the charges, instead of confessing now and receiving a milder punishment as a result?

"Will the orderly please bring out the Scales, as well as the Feather?"

The orderly bowed to Ma'at, before leaving the room. He was gone only a moment, returning soon with a gold set of balance scales in one hand, and the glittering Feather of Truth in the other. Ma'at nodded in approval, before turning to face the court. "As all of you are no doubt aware, the Judging will proceed as follows: the Feather shall be weighed against an item belonging to the prosecutor, preferably one that he is somehow binded to magically, or one that is otherwise infused with his essence or magic. If the item is lighter than or balances out the Feather, than the prosecutor is telling the truth. Otherwise, if it is heavier than the Feather, than he is lying. Will the orderly please bring out the prosecutor's most cherished possession?"

Once again, the orderly left briefly, returning with Jack's staff in his hand. Jack winced at the sight: he'd been forced twelve hours ago to give his staff to Ma'at so she could make sure that there was no magic on it which would interfere with the Feather's, and he dearly wanted it back in his possession. He missed flying and speaking with the Wind.

"Will the orderly please commence the weighing of the item?"

A shiver of apprehension that he couldn't explain suddenly traveled up and down Jack's spine, as the orderly placed the Feather in one pan of the balance, and his staff in the other.

Somehow, he had the feeling that things were about to go terribly, _horribly_ wrong.

* * *

 **A/N: Jack, you have no idea.**

 **Also, before all of you experts start complaining that this isn't how courts work...I know. I do my research, y'know. Any creative liberties I've taken are completely intentional, because _this isn't a normal court of law._ There is no jury, there are no lawyers, there are no witnesses or anything. So, of course, I had to make some changes to the process for this whole shebang to work. Deal with it (by the way, if there are any terms used in this chapter that you don't understand, Google is your friend. I'm too tired right now to give my usual explanations).**

 **I'm...fairly certain there was something else I wanted to mention, but I've forgotten what it was. And I want to go to bed. I'm sure it wasn't terribly important, whatever it was.**

 **(Questions? PM me)**

 **(Techie out)**


	24. Sol 7

**A/N: Yo, dudes, where have y'all been? I thought you'd be excited that this arc is moving forward, since several of you have been eagerly asking for me to finally write the darn thing. I find your lack of excitement...disturbing (ha, Star Wars reference, I win).  
**

 **Anyway, I finally remembered what it was that I wanted to tell you, and that is that I'm going to start a new one-shot series soon. You see, several people (both on here and on AO3) have been asking to know more about the Winter Court, so I'm going to start a series that centers around Jack and his role in the Court, and all of the beautifully angsty adventures that he has there. So. Yeah. You may freak out now. Be sure to keep an eye out for it if you're interested.  
**

 **...Still taking prompts!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

 _"_ _And I can't stop 'til the whole world knows my name_ _  
_ _'Cause_ _I was only born inside my dreams_ _  
_ _Until you die for me, as long as there's a light, my shadow's over you_ _  
_ _'Cause I, I am the opposite of amnesia_ _  
_ _And you're a cherry blossom_ _  
_ _You're about to bloom_ _  
_ _You look so pretty, but you're gone so soon_

 _Some legends are told_ _  
_ _Some turn to dust or to gold_ _  
_ _But you will remember me_ _  
_ _Remember me for centuries_ _  
_ _And just one mistake_ _  
_ _Is all it will take_ _  
_ _We'll go down in history_ _  
_ _ **Remember me for centuries**_ _"_ _-"Centuries" by Fall Out Boy_

* * *

Horakhty was pissed. And worried, and upset, but mostly pissed because honestly, _what the hell had Ra been thinking, dammit?_

Oh, mind you, it was not a crisis of conscience that Horakhty was experiencing. The hawk had nothing against knocking that haughty winter spirit down a few pegs, and the severe burns the teen had received were merely a welcome bonus. The bastard deserved it, thinking that a miserable, low-class creature like him belonged in the ranks of such elites as the Guardians. The pathetic excuse for a winter spirit had been asking for this for a long time, and Horakhty felt no remorse whatsoever for the role that he had played in Jack Frost's comeuppance.

No, what he was currently panicking about was the way that Ra had gone about punishing Jack. The sun god had been cautious at first, making sure not to push Jack too far while also being careful to cover all his traces, and it had worked. Jack had been satisfactorily blackmailed and terrorized, and as long as Ra made sure not to hurt him _too_ much, scare him _too_ badly, the two could be certain that Jack wouldn't snitch.

But of course, Ra couldn't be satisfied with that. No, the moron of a nutcase had to go and downright _brutalize_ Jack, had to convince him that both he and the other Guardians were in danger of their _lives._ Jack might be self-sacrificing to a fault, but he was no idiot, and if he thought that there was a possibility that his friends might be in danger, than there was no doubt he would warn them. Really, it was a miracle that Tooth hadn't believed him.

Now, however, there were bigger fish to fry, namely the court case. Ra thought that the lawsuit fiasco was in the bag and dealt with, a minor inconvenience, but Horakhty wasn't so sure. Yes, Ra had successfully tampered with the Feather and corrupted it, but the whole process had been messy, haphazard, too many loose ends. They hadn't had a chance to _really_ hide the evidence, and there was still one witness to their actions that they hadn't been able to silence yet.

Wind.

The unique friendship between Jack Frost and the Wind was both inexplicable and legendary, as well as a topic of much discussion in the spirit world. No one could seem to explain why the Wind, who was notoriously a stand-offish, brutal, wild entity, would forge such a camaraderie with a mere winter spirit who was neither powerful nor otherwise remarkable, and as a result rumors and stories had run rampant. No matter how sequestered from society the Big Four had been lately, there was no way in hell that they didn't know about Jack's connection with the Wind.

Which led to problems of the 'Wind potentially alerting the Guardians of what was happening' variety. Certainly, Horakhty doubted that the Big Four could communicate properly with the Wind (since the Wind was, well, _wind,_ and probably not much of a talker), but he wasn't _sure._ He wasn't _sure,_ and that annoyed him a great deal. Horakhty had always been a prudent and methodical bird, the voice of reason among the bizarre delusions that his raving lunatic of a master fostered, and nothing bothered him more than uncertainty and apprehension. Spontaneity had never been a habit of his.

The hawk huffed angrily from his perch in a palm tree, and sulked. At least if he'd been allowed into the courtroom to make sure things were going well and Ra wasn't screwing up (again), he would be feeling better and a little less panicky. But no, Ra's sorry excuse for a daughter had to instantly spew hundreds of regulations and rules and he didn't know what else, in order to make sure that the hawk wasn't present for the hearing, and now Horakhty was having a massive freak-out session several miles away from the scene of action. Mother of Aten, what did they expect him to do, break his crazy master out? Why couldn't they let him in the damned justice building, already? Stupid Ma'at, stupid Ra, stupid Frost, stupid Guardians, stupid Ma'at…

...Something was moving.

Suddenly alert, Horakhty stared at the horizon, gazing at cloud of sand that seemed...oddly out of place against the desert sand. While the desert was more of a pale yellow-white, the cloud was bright golden, almost like...the Sandman's dreamsand…

Horakhty's heart sank.

What on Earth was Sandy doing in Egypt at half-past noon?

* * *

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Jack gazed fixedly at the scales, watching as first one side, than the other, rose and fell in an attempt at stabilization. He was most focused on his staff though, observing it bobbing first up and then down, feeling incredibly nervous as anxiety danced up his spine.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

He couldn't shake the feeling that things were going to take a turn for the worse, no matter how hard he tried. Moreover, the sensation itself was hyping up the nervous factor: Jack had learned long ago to always trust his instincts, this one most of all. Reason was all well and good, in his opinion, but Jack was a savage, untamable spirit, belonging to nature and to the wild, and as such he knew how to rely on instinct, and had a tendency to trust it more than he did logic alone.

And right now, every muscle in his body was screaming at him to _run._

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

It made no sense, really. His instinct had never been wrong before, but why on Earth would he run now, when things were finally going his way? Why leave when Ra was about to get his due punishment?

He was torn between staying and fleeing, and he couldn't shake the sight of Ra's ever-growing smug smile.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Had Geb been right? Had Ra somehow contaminated the Feather? It would explain both Jack's jitteriness and Ra's barely-suppressed glee, but Ma'at had insisted that such a thing was impossible, unthinkable. Ra wouldn't dare to do such a thing.

...Would he?

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Down.

Jack blinked in shock. Than he did so again, this time in growing horror.

Down.

Down.

Down.

No. No. No, no, no. Please, no. Anything but this. Anything, anything at all.

Down.

Down.

Down.

The entire courtroom stared in heavy silence at the scales as they settled, showing that the staff was heavier than the Feather of Truth.

* * *

The only conclusion that Horakhty could reasonably draw was that Sandy had found out what was going on, and was here to help Jack.

Because really, why else would the Sandman be flitting towards Ma'at's courtroom in broad daylight, with his trademark I-will-turn-everyone-responsible-for-this-into-a-battering-ram face, instead of doing his usual work of spreading dreams?

...This was bad. Really, really bad, because Sandy was scary as hell and Horakhty didn't want to be turned into a battering ram, thank you very much. Ra he didn't care so much about, but himself? No, not if he could help it. Being thrown against buildings _hurt,_ and was terrible for his plumage.

The best thing to do would be to run like fury, far away from everything. If Horakhty stood up to Sandy here, than chances were that he'd be ripped to shreds, and if he allowed Sandy to halt the trial, than both he and Ra would be beaten to a bloody pulp. Sandy was protective of Jack, though only Aten knew why, and he wouldn't be happy at either the hawk or his master.

On the other hand...Ra. Ra would be pissed if he left. Chances were high that the sun god would leave the lawsuit unscathed, and even if he didn't, he wouldn't be imprisoned forever. Sandy would hurt Horakhty, yes, but Ra would _torture_ him, would _mutilate_ him, would _kill_ him. Sandy would be violent, but Ra would be downright _homicidal,_ and when it was a choice between being roughed up a bit and being slowly and painfully killed...well, it would probably be better for Horakhty if he angered Sandy instead of Ra.

He still felt nervous, though. This was going to hurt a _lot._

Taking a deep breath, the hawk swooped down on the Sandman in a majestic rage of fire and fury. Adrenaline churned through his veins as he shrieked, the sound echoing across the desert, fire trailing behind him as he prepared to obliterate his foe…

...Only to be grabbed at the last second by a sand whip and flung unceremoniously against the ground, kicking up sand as he flailed and squawked pathetically in a mix of surprise and pain.

He was _so_ screwed.

* * *

"Take him away."

The words barely registered to his numb brain, sounding more like a faint hum than the solemn thud of the death sentence they were meant to represent. Dimly, he recognized the feeling of hands placing chains on his wrists, before clutching at his arms and hauling him upright, but he felt too shocked, too dazed to react properly.

It was only when the two guards had led him halfway from his desk to the door that he came to himself, and even then he wasn't fully in control of his words and actions. He was distantly aware of flailing, struggling, screaming and threatening and pleading that he was innocent and there must be some mistake, no, please, _why wasn't anybody listening to him?_

He pulled against the hands dragging him away, fighting in vain to get free, to escape, to run, run, _run_. The guards, however, knew their job well, and they held him tight as they led him out of the courtroom and into a nearby prison.

The next few minutes were a chaotic blur of panic and tears and sobs and screams, as he was not-too-gently escorted to a cell and flung inside, body impacting the ground harshly as his chains rattled. He was barely given the time to recover before being yanked roughly over to the wall and having his chains attached to it. When he tried to scramble away, to do anything that would get him out of this place, the guards were quick to savagely smash his head into the dank, moldy ground with somewhat more force than was strictly necessary, uncaring of the way that the side of his head began to bleed and his pale hair started being stained a dull pink. They had seen hundreds of his ilk, hundreds of base criminals, and they were utterly void of sympathy for him or for his plight.

The blow to the head was disorienting enough that he simply slumped on the ground, half-unconscious as his jailers finished chaining him to the cold stone wall. The creak of the door closing, of the key turning in the lock, was enough, however, to clear his head and send fear rushing through his very soul, and with a despairing cry he flung himself at the door, stretching his bonds to the limit as he clawed at the barrier between him and freedom.

Pain shot through his fingers when he scrabbled at the door, though, and he was shocked to note blood suddenly traveling down his digits. Uncomprehendingly, he stared at the slab of wood in front of him, understanding slowly dawning as his eyes gradually accustomed to the darkness.

Glass. Bits of broken glass were embedded in the wood, along with nails and chunks of sharp metal, specifically to deter him from trying to break the door down. When he had scraped at the offending object, he had cut himself on the glass.

Something broke inside him, then. Somehow, the stress, the anguish, the pain of the past week and especially of the past half-hour, suddenly became too much for him to bear, crushing and bruising him. Betrayal, hatred, pain, sorrow, fear, confusion, all chipped at his resolve and spirit, and the cramped, dark, stifling conditions of his prison was only making things worse by adding a dash of claustrophobia to the mix. Being incarcerated, restrained, locked up...it broke him. It broke him, destroyed him utterly, for no nature spirit should ever be confined, far away from the fresh air and the bright sunlight of the outdoors.

Worst of all, it reminded him. Reminded him of being strapped to tables, tied to chairs, hung by chains from the ceiling as he was used as some kind of sick plaything. It forced him to recall the times when he'd been held prisoner and tortured by others, whether for information on the Winter Court or merely for cruelty's sake, and made him remember knives and whips and swords and brands and scalpels...

It was too much, far too much. This last disappointment was merely the final nail in the coffin of his sanity and self-composure.

For a little while, Jack went insane.

He practically threw himself at the door, grabbing at it, uncaring of the way that the shards of glass slashed his fingers, hands, arms down to the very bone. And when this haphazard bid for freedom inevitably failed, he tossed himself again and again and again at the door, wounds multiplying as blood began to drip from his arms and pool on the ground.

It was several hours, or perhaps days, before he was forced to stop from a combination of blood-loss and sheer exhaustion, practically falling over from fatigue. Despairing, empty, tired, shattered, he crumpled into a defeated, pathetic pile of winter spirit, weak and frightened.

Alone, imprisoned, disheartened, he sobbed without tears, Ra's triumphant smile etched forever in his memory like the mark from a red-hot brand.

* * *

 **A/N: I almost feel sorry for doing this to Jack. Almost. Also, did anybody get the movie/book reference I made in this chapter (hint: the door)? Virtual cookie for whoever gets it.  
**

 **Anyway, it's been a while (i.e. "Cruel and Unusual") since I've written broken, panicky, flailing, mildly-insane Jack, so I'm not sure how well I did. I'm slightly worried that the last scene is too fast-paced. Blargh.**

 **Also, don't blame me for Jack's plight, because this is mostly your fault. I was going to let Jack off easy, but then you guys started begging me to _please don't let Ra get away with this and imprison Jack,_ and you gave me ideas. So yeah.  
**

 **(Questions? PM me)**

 **(Techie out)**


	25. Running

**A/N: Greetings, readers! Welcome to a new chapter of "I'm Fine"! But, before you move on to the story itself, allow me to make an announcement...the new one-shot series, the one centered around the Winter Court that I mentioned last chapter? IT'S OUT!**

 **Yep, it's out! It's called "Cold Shock," and I'm really excited about it, so please do check it out if you're interested. Oh, I have many plans for that series, many plans indeed.**

 **Oh, I'm also still taking prompts. So there's that as well.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

 _"I know you hate me_  
 _I can see through your eyes_  
 _I feel the same way_  
 _You had the guts to take me by surprise_  
 _Maybe I should call it quits_  
 _I know you like to see me like this_  
 _I rot inside to fight the fight_  
 _You know I can't win_

 _You're a god damn liar_  
 _You're a god damn liar_  
 _I don't want to care_  
 _Like I want to care_  
 _You're a god damn liar_  
 _You're a god damn liar_  
 _I don't want to care_  
 _Like I want to care"-"_ God Damn Liar" by Get Scared _  
_

* * *

His feet were bleeding, flayed nearly to the bone from running through the dark, almost oppressive forest, the pale extremities now stained with an erratic, coagulated mess of dry, fresh, and frozen blood that was mixed with dirt and grime. His abused muscles were screaming in agony, his lungs burning and heart racing, adrenaline rushing like wildfire through his veins as he desperately tried to remain ahead of his pursuers.

Normally, he loved forests, treasuring the tranquility they brought, the peacefulness in his otherwise turbulent life. Now, however, he hated them, hated that he kept stumbling on tree root and stones, hated that his now-tattered cloak kept getting caught on and entangled in rocks and bushes, hated that the towering treetops obscured what little moonlight there was that might have offered him guidance through the shadows. As petty as it might seem, he couldn't help but feel as if the forest itself was against him, trying to make him fall into the hands of his enemies, and that alone was enough to make him hate it, if only for a little while.

His bitterness towards the forest, however, paled in comparison to his loathing towards his would-be captors, the very ones that he would have once considered calling friends, the only spirits outside of the Winter Court that had accepted him. He had trusted them, if not with his life or pain, than at least with his...feelings? Or something? Come to think of it, he hadn't really trusted any of them with anything quite yet...

Still, he hadn't expected them to chase him down like a pack of dogs going after a fox, hadn't expected them to strike him when he was down and steal his staff before trying to murder him, and he couldn't help but feel betrayed. Betrayed that they'd butted their way into his personal life, without his permission, and had proceeded to hunt him down without giving him a chance to explain himself, basing their judgment off of rumors and hearsay instead of on his own telling of accounts. Yes, he realized that as the Suzerain of Winter he didn't have the...best track record, being known more for his remarkable kill count than for his kindness, but damn it, it was a dog-eat-dog world out there, and he had done what he needed to survive, nothing more. It was kill or be killed, hurt or be hurt, and when it was a decision between being merciful and dying on the spot, or being ruthless and surviving a few more days...well, Jack personally felt that he'd hadn't had much of a choice in the matter, to be honest.

 _But that doesn't matter to them, does it,_ he thought to himself savagely, gritting his teeth as he ducked between the trees, _no, all that matters is how many people you killed, not why or what for. None of them knows what it's like to constantly have everyone out to get you, to expect death at every turn, to survive assassination after assassination attempt and still keep your sanity, to not be able to trust anyone, even your closest 'allies'. To be despised by all before they'd even seen you, to be judged based on something you can't control, to be slated for death before you'd even drawn your first breath. None of them know what it's like, the pathetic, naive, sheltered fools-_

He was snapped out of thoughts by the sound of heavy footsteps echoing worrisomely close from the left, and with his heart jumping in his throat, he dodged to the right and darted through a thick, thorny thicket of bushes, wincing as the barbs ripped at his skin and drew blood. His clothes were definitely ruined by now, what were once rich, royal war garments now reduced to miserable, bloody tatters. He'd have to ask one of the seamstresses in the Winter Court to make another set for him...assuming that he survived, of course.

A voice spoke from not too far behind him, breaking him from his train of thought. "Frosty! Slow down a little, mate!"

 _Why? So you can hurt me, torture me, maybe even kill me?_ He shook his head and continued running, patches of blood-stained frost marking the places where his feet came into contact with the ground as he slithered between the trees. A snarl of frustration made itself heard from the recesses of his throat when his cloak finally caught one too many times against a branch, and with a savage gesture he clawed at the clasp, snapping it in two and leaving the torn article of clothing behind as he continued running. His freedom and safety were worth more than a mere scrap of fabric.

A malicious humming sound came from his right, perilously close, and in response he veered to the left, feeling relieved as the buzzing of gossamer wings faded away. Out of the four, Tooth and Bunny were perhaps the most agile, one in the air and the other on the ground, and it was these two that he was having the most trouble avoiding, especially since he currently couldn't fly.

"Sweet Tooth! Hold up!" The feminine voice sounded exhausted and strained, the fairy likely out of breath from the long chase, and normally Jack would be concerned. Now, however, he pushed on, on and away from the those who had betrayed him, who wanted to destroy him.

He realized somewhat belatedly that he was heading straight towards a particularly dense group of trees, the trunks so close together that it would be too difficult and time-consuming to try to slip between them. With a small huff of exasperation, he swerved to instead go around them, momentarily deviating from his path, which had so far led north. No sooner did he try this maneuver, however, when the humming started again from the side, forcing him back onto his course and right through the copse.

As he struggled on through the mess of leaves and boughs, he found himself wondering. It seemed to him that, for some reason, the Guardians were trying to prevent him from going anywhere except north. It was almost as if they were herding him…

Herding him. The word stirred some long-buried memory, and with no small amount of dread he fond himself remembering something that his ex-mentor, Jokul, had said long ago. Jokul had always been a bit touched in the head, but he had plenty of street-smarts, and one important thing he'd told Jack was to make sure that in a chase, he wasn't being forced into going a certain direction and possibly straight towards a trap. That must be what the Guardians were doing, Jack had been sprinting due north for the past half-hour and he hadn't even realized it.

Suddenly panicked, Jack abruptly turned and sprinted to the left, hoping to take his pursuers by surprise. No such luck, however, for the thudding of rabbit feet instantly followed his attempt, and he was compelled to return to his preordained trajectory. Further endeavors were halted in the same way, and with terror in his heart and tears in his eyes Jack found himself rushing on, on, on, towards whatever fate his former companions undoubtedly had in store for him.

He could only hope that he would be able to fight them when the time came.

* * *

Jack was difficult to catch, Bunny would give him that. As annoying as it was for the lagomorph, he couldn't help but grudgingly admit that Jack was clever, with tricks up his sleeve and a stamina that Bunny didn't even know he had. Most spirits would have keeled over and died after being hunted down for so long, but Jack was still going strong.

Although...not as strong, anymore. Bunny glanced worriedly at the patches of melting, blood-encrusted frost lying about, and winced. With him being barefooted, Jack's feet must be cut to the very bone by now. It was honestly a miracle that the Winter Suzerain was even able to _walk,_ let alone run.

Winter Suzerain...the words left a bitter taste on Bunny's tongue. There wasn't a single spirit who didn't know of the Suzerain's exploits, of bloody wars, of underhand fighting, of rivers of innocent blood spilled. The Suzerain's hands were not so much stained with as downright bathed in blood, and to know that Jack, and Jack alone, was responsible for the deaths of thousands...well, it shocked and horrified Bunnymund, it really did. He wanted to disbelieve it, to maintain that Jack couldn't be the killer known as the Wolf of Winter, to insist that there must be some mistake, but that wasn't possible now. He'd seen enough to know that it was nothing more or less than the cold, cruel, harsh reality.

As he bounded through the forest, the light from Sandy's dreamsand being the only thing that helped illuminate the darkness, his mind wandered to the events of three hours ago, when this whole adventure first started. He cringed as unpleasant images came to mind, of a group of Winter spirits fighting with some dryads, of warm and cold blood mingling on the forest floor, of Jack in full royal garb battling at the front, slaying dryad after dryad with a vicious-looking sword like he was some kind of _murderer-_

 _No! Don't think about it!_ Bunny shook his head, he needed to remain calm. There had to be some explanation, some kind of justification for Jack's actions. He wasn't about to repeat the same mistake that he made during the disastrous Easter of 2012. Instead, he would talk to Jack composedly and sort this all out, same as a civilized person would do.

Now, if only Jack would stop racing away like some kind of frightened hare.

* * *

 _This must be where they plan to trap me,_ he thought, as he glanced at the towering cliff-face in front of him. At the base of the cliff was a clearing, and currently the Guardians were shepherding him directly towards it. As if to make matters worse, the cliff-face was not straight, instead curving so that he would be trapped in some kind of hollow with only one, easily-blockable exit. He would have no choice but to fight them once he reached the cliff, and he sincerely doubted that he would survive, injured and heavily outnumbered as he was.

Nevertheless, his hand crept towards the scabbard at his side, blood-stained fingers wrapping around the ancient, ivory handle of his sword as he neared the cliff. As little hope as he had that he would live through this, he certainly wasn't going down without a fight, and the Guardians would have a hard time killing him, he would make sure of it.

With that resolve in mind as he finally entered the clearing, the Lord of Winter unsheathed his sword before turning around, feeling not unlike a stag held at bay by hounds as he pressed his back to the earthen wall, holding the katana in front of himself in a defensive stance. Mere moments after he had done this, the four Guardians burst into the clearing, coming to an abrupt halt before slowly moving to surround him. Jack's jaw hardened slightly as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his weapon in response.

Showtime.

* * *

The air was charged with electricity as they sized each other up, the Guardians taking in the sight of Jack's blood-smeared, harried appearance. He looked downright terrified, eyes wild with fear and adrenaline as he held the sword like it was some sort of barrier between himself and them. His body shook from a combination of fright and fatigue, and it was clear from the look in his eyes and the set of his jaw that he didn't expect to come out of this confrontation alive.

The thought made their insides clench. That Jack would so easily believe that they were turning against him, that they wanted to _kill_ him, was both saddening and painful. It was obvious that for all his silken words and vague promises, he didn't actually trust them, didn't have faith in their pledges to never harm him. Yes, the Big Four were both hurt and confused at what they had witnessed with the dryads, but that didn't mean that they would cast him off so easily without giving him a chance to explain himself. They were long past that now, or so they had thought.

Apparently, Jack didn't agree with them on the matter.

Slowly, carefully, they inched closer to him, fanning out so that he couldn't escape, and watched as the action prompted him to brace himself as if for a fight, his frantic blue gaze flitting from one Guardian to another so that he never had any one of them out of his sight for too long. He was so _ready,_ so _prepared_ for them to betray him, and it made them wonder how long he'd been waiting to be forsaken by them. Deep down, they didn't really want to know.

There were a few moments before Bunny decided to break the silence, speaking quietly as if to a frightened animal. "Jack, are you all right?"

Jack looked surprised at the question, even as he answered stiffly, formally, his words more automatic than sincere, like he was giving some sort of preprogrammed response. "I'm fine."

 _No, you're not,_ Bunny wanted to say but restrained himself. "Okay. That's good, Jack. Can you please put the sword down?"

Jack simply shook his head haltingly.

"Jack," Bunny repeated, his voice a bit louder, watching as Jack flinched a little in response. "Put. The sword. Down."

"No."

Bunny blinked at the sudden harshness in Jack's tone, green eyes narrowing. When he next spoke, his voice was challenging and belligerent. "Why not, ya gumby?"

Jack glared, eyes filled with sorrow and bitterness. "You know perfectly well why."

Bunny could feel his short temper already slipping away from him, an angry retort forming on his tongue, and privately, he was relieved when Tooth spoke, thus preventing him from yelling at the stupid winter spirit.

"Jack," she said, her wings buzzing anxiously as she wrung her hands. "We just want to talk to you, Sweet Tooth."

"Is that so?" now Jack was smiling, although it was really more of a caustic, sardonic flash of the teeth than a smile. "Before or after you kill me?"

"We're not gonna kill ya, ya drongo," Bunny snapped, ignoring the twin glares from Tooth and Sandy.

Jack huffed. "Yeah, right. Pull the other one, Bun-bun. If you're not going to kill me, you're still going to, I don't know, torture me or something."

They all winced at the way that the word 'torture' slid so easily off his tongue, like it was somehow normal for him to be senselessly tormented by others. Sandy started making frantic symbols, dreamsand twisting and thrashing like a drowning octopus as he struggled to get his point across, and North translated. "Sandy says that we are serious, we will not hurt you, Jack. We wish only to talk."

"That's what everyone says," Jack retorted. "And all I have to show for these little 'talks' are scars from people who hated me because of what I am. Try again, guys."

 _People who hated me because of what I am..._

Their eyes widened in shock. It was slowly becoming clear, agonizingly clear why Jack was acting the way he was, and yet none of them wanted to admit it. Everyone knew that winter spirits were hated, abhorred, that they were the scum of the Earth. Deep down, they had known that Jack, their Jack, surely hadn't been exempt from the alienation, but none of them had wanted to think about it. Now, though, it was painfully obvious that not only did Jack suffer from the widespread animosity towards his ilk, but had also received the brunt of it. Rumors were fickle, untrustworthy things, but if even half the things that spirits gossiped about were true…

 _What I am..._

Boasting was an unfortunate habit, and it was not many a spirit who would pass up on a chance to brag about one-upping the scapegoat of the spirit world, the Suzerain of Winter. The sheer number of stories about how one person or another had managed to somehow injure, maim, hurt the Suzerain...well, the Guardians had been mostly skeptical of such seeming tall tales, but Jack's behavior told a very different story from the one that the four had chosen to believe.

It would explain the episode with the dryads, after all. Dryads were normally peaceful and tranquil creatures, but in the battle, there had been pure hatred shining in the almond-shaped eyes of each and every one of them. In that moment, the Guardians found themselves wondering if Jack and his small army hadn't been attacking the dryads, but rather _defending themselves against them._

Surely, though, Jack didn't mistrust them...did he?

...Did he?

In a way, in a terrible, twisted way, it would clarify everything if he didn't. Why Jack flinched when they moved to touch him, why he always seemed to keep a careful eye on their movements and actions, why he was always like a tightly-wound spring that seemed about to snap at any moment. Why he was eternally suspicious, showing a level of wariness that none of the other winter spirits the Guardians had met had shown. Why it had taken decades to get him to stop jumping out of his skin every time one of them drew their respective weapon.

It was a frightening thought, but it made _sense._ Terrible, ghastly _sense._

"Jack," said Tooth, and when she spoke, her voice shook like a leaf in the wind. "Why are you so sure that we're going to hurt you?"

She was praying that he wouldn't say what she thought he would say. Because if it turned out her suspicions were correct, that would mean Jack had never trusted them, and she didn't want to hear that. She didn't want to hear that he couldn't have faith in them, that he had learned to distrust them before he'd even known them.

(And oh, wasn't that ironic, to be shoved away before she'd even met him, like they and all before them had done to him. Wasn't it a nice twist, a droll situation, a fitting end to a play that had no beginning?)

All of her prayers were futile, though, as Jack's next words demonstrated clearly.

"Because," Jack said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, as if it was perfectly commonplace, "that's all that people ever do."

There was a silence. A long, long silence, the silence that followed something irreparably shattering into thousands of sharp, lethal pieces, the deafening quietude that typically came after a fragile object was smashed against the unforgiving ground.

Far away, a wolf howled desolately, as if it were mourning the terrible, agonizing loss of something that it had never had.

* * *

 **A/N: First off, I would like to personally apologize for the ending. I got into a bad place mentally when I was in the middle of writing this, and had no clue how to finish it, so I basically just went all gloom-and-doom on everyone and left it at that. Hey, if I'm going to fail, I'm going to do it _in style_.**

 **Secondly, William Joyce said that Jack's battle style is modeled off of Kendo. So now Jack has a katana. Deal with it.**

 **(Questions? PM me)**

 **(Techie out)**


	26. Of Pink Tapirs And Broom Closets

**A/N: Hello again. This work is the result of a prompt from the rotg_kink meme, which goes as follows (quoted verbatim):  
**

 _Jack's not the only winter spirit._

 _It's just the others are REALLY fucking scary, except maybe one or two._

 _At the beginning when word on the frost coated street was that there's a new kid they all jumped at the chance for a new kid because it's been so LONG since one showed up,_

 _and they proceed to freak him out immensely and he never talks to them again. They are kind of like that estranged side of the family that you hate visiting and never want to show your friends._

 _Unfortunately, like that estranged side of the family, they always turn up somehow._

 _+1000 for including that North is technically part of this "family" in that the actual Russian Santa is called Ded Moroz, which translates as Father Frost._

 ** _..._ I tried my best.  
**

 **As a side note...Jack is NOT the Winter Suzerain in this work. I repeat, he is NOT the Winter Suzerain. This is completely unrelated to all my other works, and was just written for the lolz because I got a bit fed up with writing angst.  
**

 **Also, there's a guest reviewer I'd like to reply to, but this A/N is already too long as it is. So, guest reviewer** ** _JFunderburker,_ if you're reading this, please proceed to the bottom A/N for my response to your review.  
**

 **And now, on to the chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

There was a reason, that is to say several reasons, but there was a main reason that was more important than the other reasons, hence why Jack usually only thought of there being one reason, which was perhaps slightly erroneous, but it was easier to keep track of things this way and he hadn't needed to keep track of anything for over three hundred years so give him a break already, that Jack hated North's annual Christmas parties.

It wasn't just the people, although that certainly played a role. Jack, while excellent with kids, wasn't very good at socializing with other spirits who weren't kids, because he'd already been a bit of an introvert before his rebirth and three hundred years of solitude did not do much to improve social skills that you've never had in the first place. Not to mention that most spirits either hated him or were scared of him or both, because he was a winter spirit and almost everyone else was a prejudiced ninny, and the only ones who wanted to talk to him were the Guardians and other winter spirits, and the other winter spirits terrified him because they were, quite frankly, completely insane. Which wasn't to say that Jack wasn't a bit insane as well, because again, three hundred years of solitude anyone? But the fact remained that he was only marginally insane, and the other winter spirits were _completely_ insane, and yeah. No. He did not want to be anywhere near them.

He was, after all, still recovering from the first time he'd met them some two hundred and seventy-four years ago, when all of the yuki-onna had tried (and failed miserably) to hug him at the same time, Jokul Frosti had given him a blood-stained sword and launched into a speech about the various execution methods used by humans during the fourteenth century, General Winter had nearly set him on fire (the man had an unhealthy and somewhat paradoxical obsession with matches), and Old Man Winter had turned him into a pink tapir with glitter-encrusted fairy wings. Not that Jack had anything against tapirs, or the color pink, or fairy wings, or glitter, but it was just that he didn't appreciate being turned into a creature that shared all of the characteristics by some people that he'd never met before, all at four in the morning, and it was enough to drive a bit of a wedge between himself and the 'others'.

And that, in fact, brought us to the real reason that Jack hated North's Christmas parties, and that was because North always insisted on inviting _all_ the winter spirits (because apparently North was also a winter spirit, and all winter spirits were faaaaaamily, and he just had to invite all the crazies because otherwise the Snow Queen would never talk to him again, and Jack really thought that North should care less about the Snow Queen because the two didn't suit each other _at all_ and they would make a terrible couple, but since when had North ever listened to his advice? Never, that's when). Which in turn led us to Jack's current activity, which was hiding in a corner of North's Workshop while hoping against all hope that he would not get cornered (ha) by a fellow winter spirit.

Of course, as he was now a Guardian, this automatically meant that there were four people all meddling in his life, so it took approximately three minutes for Tooth to notice his withdrawal from society, track him down, and demand what he was doing in the broom closet and why wasn't he having fun with the other spirits and was he alright and would he like some strawberries? They were so good for your teeth!

"I'm fine, Tooth. And I don't want to socialize," he explained, deliberately ignoring the bowl of strawberries that Tooth was brandishing in front of his face. Absentmindedly, he pushed away a broom that had fallen on top of him when Tooth had first thrown the door to the closet open.

"Nonsense, Jack! You need to socialize! It'll be fun!" Tooth's voice scraped against his eardrums like a rake against a concrete sidewalk.

"It will be anything _but_ fun, Tooth. I assure you that most spirits hate me. If I leave this closet, I will be torn into pieces before you can say 'Man in the Moon.'"

By this time, Tooth had realized that trying to get Jack to eat the strawberries was a futile endeavor, and she had begun to snack on them herself, popping strawberry slices into her mouth one at a time and chewing them noisily. "Don't be silly, Jack. Nobody would try to kill a Guardian. Besides, aren't there other winter spirits you can mingle with?"

Jack's eyes widened in horror. "No. No. Do _not_ even go there. I refuse, absolutely _refuse_ to talk with other winter spirits, and you can't make me. North is bad enough as it is."

Tooth paused between strawberries. "Bad enough? Jack, what are you talking about?"

"You seriously don't know?"

Tooth shook her head, cheeks bulging with strawberries and making her look somewhat like a psychotic chipmunk. Briefly, Jack wondered how she'd managed to cram so many berries into her mouth so quickly, but decided not to bring it up, instead sighing as he began to explain. "It's just...all the winter spirits are insane, okay? And I don't mean the harmless insanity, like collecting orange bat wings or taxiderming used cellphones before mounting them on your wall. I mean the sort of insanity that prompts you to regale complete strangers with stories about fourteenth-century execution and torture methods, or to set said strangers on fire with matches and lighter fluid."

Tooth blinked. "Those are...oddly specific examples."

"I've had an oddly specific life. Anyway, I wouldn't mind this so much, in fact if they'd sprung this on me in a less rushed manner than maybe I would have even accepted it. But, as mentioned before, winter spirits are completely insane and can't do anything in even a slightly reasonable manner. So, there I am, a spirit who's barely a few decades old, and then Old Man Winter, Jokul Frosti, General Winter, and about twenty yuki-onna all show up at the same time to 'welcome' me. I ended up stuck in a ditch, covered in burn-marks whilst holding a bloodstained sword and wondering how to reverse the spell that had turned me into a glittery pink tapir with wings."

"...Oh."

"Yeah. Not the best first impression."

"Well, that explains a lot. I can see why you wouldn't want to talk with any of them. Although I have to ask, why a tapir?"

"I honestly have no idea. Go ask Old Man Winter. Or maybe don't, it doesn't sound like a very good idea."

"I concur. Strawberries?" she asked, holding out the bowl which still had an ample number of the fruits.

He considered for a moment, before reaching for the bowl. "Actually, I think I will…Want to sit here with me for a bit? There is some room if you squeeze in the space between the vacuum cleaner and the water boiler. I mean, I understand if you don't, because this is just a broom closet and there isn't much room, but I'm a bit lonely and I can't really go anywhere else until this party is over-"

"Say no more. Never let it be said that Toothiana has abandoned a friend in need. Now, where is this vacuum cleaner of which you speak?"

* * *

 **A/N: So. Humor (which is not dark!), randomness, and Jack-Tooth bonding. This is so different from what I usually write I can't even. But a guest reviewer (hello,** ** _ ** ** **JFunderburker!)******_ was kind enough to point out that it would be really nice if I wrote something that was actually happy for once, so I tried my best to follow their excellent advice (emphasis on 'tried').  
**

 **Also, speaking of** ** ** _ ** ** **JFunderburker...******_****

 _ **Response to guest reviewer** ** **JFunderburker:****_

 _ ** **Dear**** ** ** **JFunderburker,******_

 _ ** ** **First of all, thank you so much for giving your honest opinion on my work and pointing out some mistakes I have made. You raise some very good points in your review. However, there are a few things you mention in your review which, with all due respect, I personally disagree with. I will do my best to address the statements you have made, both good and bad.  
******_

 _ ** ** **First of all, you are entirely correct in stating that there is not enough hope in my works, and I apologize sincerely for this error. I am afraid that my stories have been becoming too predictable as of late, due to my tendency to always take the tragic route in my writing, and I can see how this could cause my angst to be somewhat 'forced' as you say. I will do my best to rectify this problem at the earliest opportunity, and I thank you for pointing this problem out before it got much worse. Thank you, JFunderburker.******_

 _ ** ** **However...you state that Bunnymund is out of character. You accuse me of causing the "******_ _ ** ** **characters behavior [to be] shaped more by what the plot needs than by what would actually make sense based on that character's established personality and just the overall situation at hand." And while I can see how you would think that way, the question that I would like to put to you, JFurderburker, is 'do you really know the full particulars of the situation at hand?' Because from looking over the data that is present in what I've written so far, it seems to me like the answer to that question is "no".  
******_

 _ ** ** **I will admit that Bunnymund's behavior seems exaggerated and overly judgmental on his part, at least based off of whatever information is currently given in the story. But the information I've presented so far is not all of the information in the story. Bunny is acting this way for****** ** ** **a reason,******_ ** ** **_and I can assure you that it is not just for plot reasons. I have considered very carefully the motives, emotions, and memories behind Bunny's actions, and though I cannot state them here due to spoilers, I can promise that they exist. And while this perhaps is not enough proof that I have successfully handled Bunnymund's character well, I can at least ask that you please defer your judgment until after all the facts of the case has been presented to you. Which is to say, until the next installment of "Despair"._******

 _ ** ** **However, thank you for raising these concerns in the first place. Your constructive criticism has helped greatly to improve my writing, and for that I am eternally grateful to you. Any future comments from you will, of course, be welcomed with open arms.  
******_

 _ ** ** **Yours,******_

 _ ** ** **~Techie******_

 **(Questions? PM me)**

 **(Techie out)**


	27. Sol 8

**A/N: A thank you to all the people who gave me a slap of reality to the face and told me that no, the Despair arc is not good, and yes, I should rewrite it. As of now, Despair is being rewritten. Posting of that arc will restart once the rewrite is complete. I apologize for screwing up.**

 **Also, as a general rule: if you notice a mistake I made, please, _please_ let me know. Constructive criticism is very helpful to my writing, and I will not yell at you for giving it to me, because criticism helps me a lot. In this case, if two guest reviewers hadn't let me know that Bunny's behavior was OOC and that the arc needed to be reworked, than I would probably have gone six more chapters in before realizing that I screwed up. At least this way, the arc was nipped in the bud and I don't have to redo as much.**

 **Moral of the story: Everyone makes mistakes. If you notice that I made one, _please_ _tell me so._ Unless you really, _really_ don't want to, in which case fine.**

 **And now on to Sol 8.  
**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

Ma'at sighed to herself as she watched spirits file out of the courtroom, feeling all of a sudden as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Although normally she felt a grim sort of satisfaction after a successful trial, as if she were fulfilling her purpose in life, today she felt uncomfortable and agitated, and it took all of her self-control not to visibly fidget as the courtroom emptied.

At last, even the orderly and the stenographer had left, leaving Ma'at alone, and with a small frown the Goddess of Law and Order slumped in her seat and buried her head in her hands, a wave of sadness and fatigue hitting her that seemed to have no clear cause.

Involuntarily, her mind wandered to Jack Frost, and to the look on his face when the guards had led him away, and the memory made something in her chest twist nervously like a frightened snake. Although normally she had no sympathy for wrongdoers, especially those that attempted to frame others and smear their names, the situation with Jack Frost felt...different, somehow. Like she'd just made a terrible mistake.

Was such a thing even possible? She certainly hadn't expected events to unfold the way they had. Jack Frost had seemed so _sincere_ , and Ra had been losing his marbles one by one ever since the fall of the Ancient Egyptian empire. If she'd had to choose which one was more likely to be the culprit, she would have definitely chosen her father, for though he had been a great ruler in his time, lack of belief had degraded him into nothing more than a raving, dangerous lunatic, a hollow shell of a man that Ma'at both pitied and felt disgusted by. Ra had never been a just or kind king, and insanity had only exacerbated the faults in his character, turning him into a manipulative, delusional liar with an insufferable ego and a love for senseless cruelty.

Jack Frost, on the other hand, was a different matter. Though years of solitude had attempted to drive him to madness, the winter spirit had kept his sanity against all odds, remaining balanced and composed while others would have surely succumbed to insanity. He'd seemed so rational, so levelheaded, so respectable.

 _Remember, young Ma'at, injustice has no face. Criminals can be found in even the most virtuous-seeming of individuals. Do not let your personal feelings get in the way of your work, or else you will fall._ These words, words that justice itself had first told her when she first came into existence, echoed in her mind, and Ma'at scrunched her teal-blue eyes shut. She couldn't afford to forget this fact. Injustice had no face, and criminals could be found even among those who seemed guiltless. She had done well in condemning Jack Frost.

But had she? Could she have been wrong? It was unthinkable, and yet…

No. It was impossible. She would never do such a thing.

And yet...

* * *

Ra practically pranced out of the courtroom, sick joy in his rotten heart and a wide smile on his face. The trial had gone perfectly, absolutely perfectly. He was a free man, freer than the wild wind swirling through the desert. Not only that, but now that miserable excuse for a winter spirit was locked away where no one could ever find him again, in the deepest cell of the darkest prison that Ma'at had to offer.

His grin widened at the thought. Maybe he could give that Frost kid a visit sometime. He was sure that the lad would _adore_ a visit from his favorite sun god, complete with Ra's stunning collection of very sharp hunting knives.

With a small, demented laugh, Ra began fantasizing about his next visit to Jack Frost. So engrossed was he in his deranged thoughts that it took a little while for him to notice that something felt...off.

There was a prickling underneath the surface of his skin and unease shifting in his chest. Shivers were dancing up and down his spine, and the unwelcome feeling of anxiety was clawing at his insides like a famished hawk-

Hawk... _hawk_. Horakhty. Something bad had happened to Horakhty, he just _knew_ it.

His smile was quickly replaced by a dark frown. Although Horakhty was useless at best and downright annoying at worst, he was _Ra's._ He wasn't useful for much else than as a punching bag, but he was _R_ _a's_ punching bag. No one else had the right to lay a _finger_ on him.

Now furious, Ra focused his magic, commanding the sun beams to search the world and tell him where Horakhty was. It did not take them long to locate the hawk, and with murder in his hazel-amber gaze the sun god snapped his fingers, abruptly disappearing. He reappeared in a place only a few miles from the location of the courtroom, where nothing but endless sand could be seen.

...As well as a bedraggled hawk having a ferocious battle with a man made of sand, and clearly losing. No matter what Horakhty tried, whether it be dive-bombing the Sandman from above or breathing fire at him from his beak, Sandy dodged every strike and retaliated by flinging the hawk at every available surface.

It was enough to make Ra see red. With an inhuman shriek of rage, the sun god unleashed a barrage of flames on the Sandman, the latter only barely blocking the onslaught by a combination of quick reactions and pure luck. Without giving Sandy any time to recover, Ra launched two more blasts of fire in rapid succession, forcing his opponent to dodge frantically like a frightened snipe.

Though Sandy put up a good fight, Ra had a distinct advantage, for he was both tremendously skilled in combat and far more powerful than his adversary. As such, it wasn't long before he vanquished his opponent, using ropes made of flames to restrain the Sandman and leave him trussed up on the ground like a chicken.

Still livid, the sun god scowled down at the Sandman, who responded with another glare. This seemed to snap Ra's already short patience, and with an animalistic growl the deranged god snarled at the Sandman. "What did you mean by attacking my hawk like that, Sanderson?"

Still maintaining eye contact with the god, Sandy glowered as images of a snowflake, a balance scale, and a stop sign appeared above his head, before being replaced by a pictograph of an angry sand-hawk attempting to drive a sand-Sandy away. _I wanted to stop Jack's trial. Your hawk_ _got in the way._

Ra raised one sand-colored eyebrow, wondering how Sandy could possibly know about the trial, before mentally shrugging it off. He had to deal with the Sandman somehow, and quickly. "Is that so? Well, I can tell you that the Egyptian Gods do not appreciate outsiders meddling in their personal affairs, nor do they like outsiders harming their sacred animals. You have crossed a great deal of lines, Sanderson, and I am honestly debating whether I should forgive you for that."

Of course, Ra was anything _but_ honest, for he had no intentions whatsoever to 'forgive' Sandy. Already he was considering ideas for disposing of the Sandman. The problem was that the process needed to be irreversible, or at least very difficult to undo, else the Sandman might return and meddle further in matters which did not concern him…

A sudden, beautiful, _brilliant_ idea came to mind, and Ra felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards into a demented smile. He had the perfect way to get rid of the Sandman... _permanently._

With a maniacal grin, Ra stared at Sandy, seemingly uncaring of the flames which suddenly blossomed on the palm of his right hand. "My dear Sanderson...Do you, perchance, know what happens to sand when it comes into contact with fire?"

Sandy's eyes widened in alarm, and Ra's grin brightened. "No? How remiss of you, it really is quite interesting...Well, I am slightly fuzzy on the exact details of the matter, but the long and short of it is that when sand meets fire, it turns into _glass. Fascinating_ , isn't it?"

Sandy was clearly frightened, though he did his best to hide it, and it took all of Ra's self-control not to burst into laughter then and there. Instead, he flashed Sandy a Cheshire-cat smile, voice sickly-sweet. "You seem disbelieving. Understandable. Perhaps you would like a small demonstration _?"_

As Sandy frantically shook his head, Ra burst into horrifying, mad laughter, before plunging his flame-covered hand straight into the Sandman's chest.

* * *

"...Ma'at?"

Ma'at straightened up, opening her eyes as she did so, turning instinctively towards the source of the voice. What she saw was enough to make a thin smile cross her normally blank face. "Thoth."

The man who stood in the doorway smiled, gray eyes filled with humor and lightheartedness, tanned arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the door frame. "The very same, my dear one. How are you?"

Ma'at nodded stiffly. "I am well. How are you and Djehuti?"

Thoth shrugged, the movement nearly dislodging the dark red ibis that was perched precariously on his shoulder, the bird in question letting out a disgruntled squawk. "I'm doing well, all things considered. As for Djehuti, the stupid birdbrain tried to eat the ink again, so let's hope he doesn't get poisoned."

"Knowing you, you probably crafted a new recipe for ink specifically designed _not_ to harm him, so I doubt that is much of a concern."

Thoth grinned. "You know me too well, my dear one. Indeed, the ink won't hurt Djehuti. Not that he won't try to hurt himself in other ways, the idiot is about as intelligent as a hearthrug. Isn't that right, you little self-destructive menace to society?" This last was directed at the ibis, which glared at the God of Knowledge, indignation in its small, beady eyes.

"Stop teasing him, Thoth."

"He started it. If he had even slightly better self-preservation instincts than a concussed lemming, I wouldn't _have_ to mock him."

"Nevertheless, he is the one who is equipped with a sharp beak, and is also currently sitting right next to your head. I would consider my words carefully if I were you and wished to avoid being pecked in the side of the head."

Thoth scoffed. "He'd ever do such a thing, he's too stupid—ow!" This last phrase was hardly intended on Thoth's part, having been a hasty reaction to the pain that accompanied Djehuti suddenly delivering a harsh, painful-looking peck to the god's forehead.

Thoth stared at the bird for a long moment, expression incredulous."...He _pecked_ me."

Ma'at giggled slightly at Thoth's pouting tone, before rapidly regaining her composure. "Occasionally, I wonder which one of you two is the real fool. For the God of Knowledge, you sometimes do the stupidest things, Thoth."

Thoth gave Ma'at a deadpan glare, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Thank you for that. I feel flattered, oh love of my life. Here I am, suffering a concussion that was just given to me by a homicidal bird maniac-"

"Hardly a concussion, Thoth. A mere bruise at the most."

"-bleeding all over the floor of your courtroom-"

"You have only a very small cut, and it has already scabbed over with minimal bleeding."

"-likely to be disfigured forevermore by horrible scars that will ruin my looks-

"The likelihood of you gaining a scar from that wound is minimal at best, and your appearance was never particularly impressive to start with anyways."

"-and yet all you can do is mock me and hurt my feelings. Shame on you, my heart, shame."

Ma'at smiled faintly. "You talk as if you actually had feelings to hurt."

With a mock gasp, Thoth clasped his hands over his chest. "You wound me, Ma'at, you wound me greatly. How did it come to this?"

"Well, I believe all started several millenia ago, when a certain young, foolish god who was obsessed with ibises and books decided to propose marriage to me, mere moments before falling into a stream and nearly drowning."

Thoth huffed. "You're never going to let that incident go, are you?"

"To be fair, you made an amusing sight."

Thoth nodded. "True. But, now that he have engaged in sufficient small talk, I believe it is time to move on to the heart of the matter. Dear one, what is wrong?"

Ma'at stiffened, her silver wings ruffling slightly. "Why should there be anything wrong?"

Thoth shrugged again. "No reason. It's just that you don't normally look like you're about to cry. One would think something went wrong during the trial."

"Nothing went wrong. Everything was fine. Jack Frost was sentenced for his crimes, and Ra was liberated with all false charges cleared."

"That does not explain why you spent four hours musing alone in your deserted courtroom, or why you look utterly heartbroken."

Had it really been four hours since the trial? Surprised, Ma'at glanced towards one of the windows and noted with no small amount of dismay that the sun was significantly lower in the sky. "I suppose it does not. To be entirely honest, Thoth, I feel...uneasy. Like I have somehow violated the rules of justice and fairness, and thus failed in my duties. I feel like I have made some terrible mistake."

There was no trace of humor in Thoth's face now, the god looking entirely serious. "Perhaps you have?"

Ma'at scoffed. "Really, you are ridiculous at times, Thoth. I am not in the habit of making mistakes. The Feather of Truth was clear on the matter."

"Perhaps it was the Feather itself that made an error in judgment, then."

"Impossible. The Feather has been isolated entirely from any outside sources of magic that could possibly corrupt it. There is no way it can be impure, unless the court proceedings themselves have tainted it slightly, and even that would not be enough to significantly alter the judgment."

Thoth looked thoughtful. "I wouldn't be so sure if I were you, my love. For while it's true that the Feather has been isolated from magic, it also means that it was very susceptible to being tampered with."

"I am not sure I understand your meaning."

"Your insistence on having it remain pure has meant that no charms or magical shields could be used to protect it, and that no magic-using guards could watch over it for longer periods of time. With the result that a mere child could enter the house in which it was stored and corrupt it."

Ma'at shook her head. "You are correct, Thoth, but at the same time woefully incorrect. To tamper with the Feather is to go against the very rules that govern justice, to violate the oldest rules of our Code of Honor. No one would dare to go against such ancient and sacred rules."

"And what makes you think that Ra would care about such rules?"

"Thoth. Though my father may be insane, I believe even he would not be so foolhardy as to disrupt the Feather."

"Nevertheless, I'd feel more at ease if I looked at it, and I think you would too. May I?"

Ma'at sighed. "Certainly. I will have to create a new, pure one after you are done with it, but that was to be expected anyways. There were too many spirits and too much ambient magic in the courtroom not to have disturbed it slightly, and though it might be usable again, I would prefer not to risk it."

Thoth nodded before striding into the room and towards the golden scales. With a brisk movement, the God of Knowledge and Magic plucked the Feather from the scales, a dark blue aura forming around the Feather as his magic set to work, scanning the magic that surrounded the Feather.

It wasn't long before a frown marred his tanned face. Concerned, Ma'at spoke. "Thoth, what is wrong?"

Thoth's frown darkened. "Ma'at, my dear one, love of my life...I am afraid you have condemned the wrong man."

Dread filled her heart, even as she struggled to keep her voice steady and calm. "What? What do you mean?"

"It is as I thought," Thoth looked up, expression somber. "Ra has corrupted the Feather of Truth."

* * *

Jack was alone, or at least as good as alone. Screams, pleas, threats got him nowhere, the guards in front of his door remaining stoically indifferent to his antics. Eventually, he tired, blood loss and exhaustion rendering him utterly spent, and with a heavy heart he fell into a troubled sleep.

He was awoken about an hour later by a rough baritone voice singing lithely outside his cell. The tune was a lilting one, both musical and discordant, as if the singer was making it up on the spot, and overall the song seemed joyful, even if Jack's groggy mind prevented him from discerning the words.

As Jack fully emerged from the haze of sleep, the murmuring song gradually shaped itself into comprehensible words: words that contrasted sharply against the cheerful melody in such a manner as to send shivers up his spine.

" _Death is but a memory, of our grim reality, before that depraved fantasy, that we all call our lives..."_ A mad cackle interrupted the singer briefly, echoing grimly within the stone walls of the prison, before the person continued as if nothing had happened. _"_ _Love is war and war is pain, so love is pain and wet is rain...Blood is cold and ice is hot, death is fun and life is not..."_

 _What on Earth…?_

" _Pain is fire and death is ice, yet they walk hand in hand like dice, the prophet sings, the shadows long,_ _death is like a_ _mountain's_ _song..."_

The voice was nearing the door to his cell, and Jack suddenly felt very, very frightened, a sick knot of dread forming in his chest. An urge to run away, to hide, to somehow get himself as far away as possible from the voice consumed him.

Of course, what with the chains and the heavy, glass-spiked door, such a thing was impossible.

" _Bloodlines are worth less than dirt, for brother do their brother hurt, mother poisons, father wounds, their children sleep_ _under the dunes..."_

The voice was now directly in front of his door. The distinctive sound of a key scraping the inside of a lock met his ears, and Jack was conscious of terror beating in his chest as the lock began to snap open.

" _Life is death and death is life, pain is joy and joy is strife..."_

There was a howling creak from the hinges, as if they were themselves were screaming in fear, before the door swung open.

* * *

 **A/N:** **I'm iffy about this chapter, to be honest (especially the bit with Thoth and Ma'at). But eh, I tried my best.**

 **Anyway, we've introduced a new character to this stupid mess of an arc that shows no sign of ending: Thoth.** **Thoth is the God of Knowledge, the Moon, Measurement, Wisdom, the Alphabet, Records, Thought, Intelligence, Meditation, the Mind, Logic, Reason, Reading, Hieroglyphics, Magic, Secrets, Scribes, and Writing. He's also Ma'at's husband, and they make the cutest couple-  
**

 **Ahem. Sorry about that.  
**

 **A bit about the Feather: The Feather of Truth is one of Ma'at's own specially-prepared feathers. It's a very delicate magical object that can be negatively affected by even small amounts of magic, hence the lack of defenses around the place it was stored and the concern that the trial proceedings may have unbalanced it (due to all of the magic-wielding spirits present at the trial). Thus, it can only be stored in places without magic of any kind. Hence why Ra could get to it so easily.**

 **It is true that Ma'at could make a new Feather to replace the corrupted one whenever she likes, but the process is painful and difficult, hence why she likes to reuse a Feather as many times as possible. So that's why she doesn't simply replace the Feather before every trial.**

 **Okay, you say, than why can't they examine the Feather for corruption before the trial? Well, here's the thing: Magic is subtle. The only way they could have detected Ra's magic was by asking Thoth (who is literally the God of Magic) to have a look at it. Except Thoth's magic would have corrupted it anyway, so...Plus Ma'at had no reason to believe the Feather was corrupted in the first place.**

 **Also, as for the song...any phrasing errors and stuff that just doesn't make sense is intentional. I'll tell you why later.**

 **One last thing: virtual cookie to whoever correctly guesses the identity of Mister Creepy Song. (Clue: the "brother do their brother hurt" line is particularly important)**

 **(Questions? PM me)**

 **(Techie out [of writing skills])**


	28. Eyebrows

**A/N: So. I was gone for a while.**

 **...I'm sorry about that, okay? I got sucked into another fandom, and I honestly didn't feel the spark to write more for RotG. I still don't. I'm not sure I ever will again.**

 **So, I'll try my best to keep updating this collection. But, if ever I suddenly stop for good...please don't hunt me down and kill me. I tried.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.**

* * *

"Hey, Pitch? What happened to your eyebrows?"

Pitch Black, the Boogeyman and the King of Nightmares, archenemy of the Guardians and long-time foe of the Man in the Moon himself, blinked. Twice.

He then carefully closed his book, carefully placed it on the small iron table at his side, and carefully drew the small black fox cub lying on his lap a little closer towards himself, before carefully leveling a glare at the (ill-advised and quite possibly insane) winter spirit grinning at him.

"What," he asked, carefully and deliberately, "are you doing in my home?"

Jack either ignored or forgot to answer the question. "I'm just asking because I've always wondered, y'know? I mean, it's not often that you see a dude wander around with no eyebrows, mostly because it looks stupid. But then again, you have very questionable fashion choices, so maybe you either don't care or don't know that it looks stupid."

Pitch briefly considered being irritated at Jack's offensive opinion of his exceptional and stunning fashion choices, but decided that figuring out what the nutcase was doing in his house in the first place was probably a better idea. "What," he asked again, "are you doing in my home?"

"Of course, there's always the possibility that you're an alien who naturally doesn't have eyebrows. I mean, Bunny is an alien and so is Sandy so I guess it's not that far-fetched that you might be one too."

Clearly, Jack was insane. Pitch tightened his protective grip on the fox cub, ignoring its small squeak as he cradled it to his chest. It would not do for anything bad to happen to Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth, and Pitch would gladly give his life to protect the small, furry creature.

Well, maybe not his life. The lives of his Nightmares, though, certainly.

"Jack," he said, preparing to bolt along with Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth if the need so arose, "are you alright?"

Jack stopped rambling under his breath about eyebrows, instead looking at Pitch as if the Boogeyman was insane. Which, for the record, Pitch considered to be a clear example of the pot calling the kettle black.

"...Yes? I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"If you're fine, what are you doing in the lair of one of your greatest enemies?"

"To ask about your eyebrows, of course," said Jack as if it were obvious.

Now, Pitch Black may have been the Nightmare King, but he was far from recovered from the battle he'd recently had with the Guardians, and he harbored no delusions as to the fact that, in his current state, Jack could easily beat him in a fight. With that, he rose from his chair and started backing away from the winter spirit, still cradling in his arms the fluffy mass that was Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth. "Is that so," he asked cagily.

Jack nodded. "Yep. Is that a fox?"

Pitch blinked before looking at down at Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth. "...Yes?"

"Oh. What's its name?"

"... Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth."

Jack blinked. "That's a stupid name."

"It's a perfectly respectable and honorable name, and kindly get out of my house."

"Make me," Jack challenged cheerfully.

Pitch briefly considered doing so, but he knew that, quite frankly, he didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of winning the resulting fight and would likely be maimed and/or killed. It was with this thought in mind that he promptly decided that, as cowardice was the better part of discretion, so discretion was the better part of valor, and with that he valiantly decided not to attack the winter spirit.

It was for everyone's best, really. Especially Frederick's.

Still, that didn't mean he couldn't complain about it.

"What can I do to make you go away?"

"Well," said Jack, still irritatingly cheerful, "you could start by telling me why you don't have any eyebrows."

Pitch raised a non-existent eyebrow, looking skeptical. "And would that make you go away?"

"Nope, but it'll pass the time until I do."

Of _course_ Jack would stay to pester him. Although why someone who was supposed to be his archenemy would willingly spend time with him was beyond Pitch.

"...Why are you even here, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be with the other goody two shoes Guardians, plotting ways to bribe small children with candy and toothpaste?"

"First of all, nobody says "goody two shoes" anymore, Pitch. Secondly, I can be wherever I want, because I'm a winter spirit and winter spirits are known for not giving a damn. And thirdly, I wanted to know what happened to your eyebrows."

Again with the eyebrows? "Nothing _happened_ to my eyebrows!"

"So you naturally don't have them? Gee, dude, that sucks. I'm sorry for you."

Pitch sighed as a headache began to settle behind his forehead. "Indeed, I naturally don't have them. Now, will you get out of my house?"

"Nope."

Pitch momentarily considered throwing Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth at him, but decided that it would be a rather irresponsible course of action for a loving pet owner and unofficial animal rights activist to take. Instead, he opted to back away some more from Jack, retreating until his back hit the cold stone wall of his lair. "May I ask again how I can get you to leave?"

Jack tilted his head to one side. "Hmm, I don't know. Nothing, really. But if you let me pet Vincent Frederick-"

"Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth," Pitch corrected automatically.

"-Yeah, that. If you let me pet him, I might consider it."

Pitch stared. "You want to pet the fox of one of the greatest evil villains to ever nearly succeed in taking over the world."

"Yes."

"The villain who taunted you, broke your staff, tossed you in a crevice, and left you to die."

"Yes."

"The villain who dearly wants to kill you and is only prevented by his weakness and general lack of power."

"That's right," Jack said jauntily.

"...Alright, fine. Why the hell not."

"That's the spirit," Jack grinned, before stepping forward to pet the fox. He didn't seem to care that he was only six inches away from Pitch, instead preferring to coo over the the cub as he ran his fingers through the dark fur. Pitch, for his part, merely stared, because honestly what else could he do?

When Jack grew tired of petting the fox, he stepped away as if nothing unusual had happened. "Well, I'll be off, then. Bye Pitch."

"Goodbye," Pitch said dazedly.

Jack smirked before taking to the air and flitting away, yelling as he went, "I'll be back next week!"

Pitch swore. Loudly and creatively.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm not ever going to pretend that this isn't garbage, because it is. That's what happens when you write for a fandom you're not inspired to write for, kids.**

 **Anyway...Pitch the animal rights activist who owns a fox. This is actually a reference to one of my old, crappy one-shots where Pitch saves a pack of foxes from being ripped to pieces by hounds. I wanted to play more with the idea, because I really like the idea of Pitch being an animal lover. I mean, look at how he's always cooing lovingly at his sand horses, it totally makes sense.**

 **Also, if Jack is OOC (which he totally is), I blame it on the Daleks. Because I can.**

 **(Techie out)**


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